Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

ImaJinn Books 

www.imajinnbooks.com 

Copyright ©2006 by Virginia Brown 

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Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

EVIL ELVIS
By
Virginia Brown
DISCLAIMER:
No animals or Elvises were harmed in the writing of this


book. A few were terribly annoyed, however. 

"If life were fair, Elvis would be alive and all the 
impersonators would be dead."—Johnny Carson 

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Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter One 

"Elvis lives." Harley Jean Davidson didn't really mean that, 
but what else could she say when her father was looking so 
expectant, waiting for her to comment nicely? "I'm sure he'd 
be pleased if he could see you dressed up like him," she 
added. 

Yogi grinned and twirled so that his jeweled white cape 
flashed in a glitter of green, red, and blue stones her mother 
had carefully sewn into what looked like eight yards of satin. 
Sunlight coming through the front window gleamed off the 
stones, almost blinding her. Good Lord. 

"This year, I've had to turn down gigs. I've been 
practicing." Yogi struck another pose, this time with one leg 
behind him, the other bent at the knee in a half-crouch, his 
arm flung out in front like he was trying to hail a taxi. 

Harley barely kept from rolling her eyes. She dreaded Elvis 
Week. It came every year in August, the momentum building 
up to a climactic frenzy of Elvis-related activities downtown 
and at Graceland. Perhaps she wouldn't dread it so badly if 
Yogi hadn't made a habit of tugging on a white jumpsuit and 
impersonating The King, whom he still admired more than 
twenty years after Elvis's death. It'd been greatly humiliating 
when she was younger and more concerned with the opinion 
of her peers. Now it registered a lesser blip on her radar 
screen. Over the years, she'd learned there were far worse 
humiliations her parents could generate than an unnatural 
attachment to a long-dead celebrity. 

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When she looked over at Diva, her mother said to Yogi, 
"This is the year you'll be famous." 

Strong accolade, considering Diva's uncannily accurate 
predictions. She might miss some of the details, but lately 
she'd been right more times than not. That should please 
Yogi. 

"Of course," her mother added, "it won't be quite as you 
expect, but your name will be linked with Elvis's in a 
spectacular way." 

That was a little unsettling. In light of the past few months 
of unwanted publicity, Harley would have preferred anything 
but spectacular. "Our family has been in the news quite 
enough, thank you verra much," she said, her accent on the 
last phrase a really bad imitation of Elvis. It made Yogi smile, 
as it always did. 

"This is the year I'll win first prize," he said jubilantly. 
"Always a runner-up, but now I think I have a real shot at it. 
Preston Hughes dropped out." 

Preston Hughes was Yogi's archrival in the Elvis 
impersonator contests. His rendition of Love Me Tender 
brought down the house every time. The judges loved him. 
While Yogi could imitate Elvis fairly well, he didn't have the 
vocal range Hughes did. 

"I'll do what I can to be there," Harley said, "but August is 
our busiest month, you know. All those tourists wanting to do 
Graceland means we have every van full. It's still July, and I 
did eight runs yesterday in twelve hours. I'd take a load out 
there, drop them off, go back for another one, bring another 
group back, take another one. I don't know how Tootsie kept 

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Evil Elvis 

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it all straight, who went where, and when, but he did. He's 
amazing." 

Diva smiled. "The candlelight vigil this year will be 
interesting. Perhaps you should skip it, Harley." 

Harley looked at her. "I'd love to, but that's our busiest 
night. All drivers are needed. Mr. Penney would fire me if I 
missed it. And I'm on shaky ground as it is after all that's 
happened." 

"I know. But I have a feeling that you should miss it 
anyway." 

"I wish you hadn't said that. I'm already committed. 
Tootsie would get into a snit if I tried to change on him now. 
I'd really like to keep my job" 

"You seem very content these days. I'm glad." 

"I am content. While I admit driving a tour bus isn't the 
best-paying job around, it does pay my bills. I like doing it. 
The hours are flexible, the people are usually nice, and when 
they aren't, I soon get rid of them and never have to see 
them again. Look in your crystal ball again. Are you sure that 
warning isn't meant for someone else? I'd hate to bail on 
Tootsie now." 

"Whatever you think best, Harley." 

Harley hated it when her mother said things like that. It 
always felt like she'd made a bad decision when Diva 
tranquilly agreed with her. 

"Okay. I have to ask. Why do you think I shouldn't go?" 

By now Diva was headed to the kitchen and Harley 
followed along behind her, something she could have done 
even in the dark since her mother liked wearing tiny bells 

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Evil Elvis 

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sewn into her loose, flowing skirts. Diva still dressed much as 
she had in the late sixties and early seventies, with her pale 
blond hair long and down her back, tunic tops and skirts to 
her ankles, sandals and bracelets and necklaces that she 
made herself out of crystals and beads and leather. Diva and 
Yogi lived in their own era, and it didn't much matter to them 
that time had moved on. 

Diva's reply drifted back over her shoulder. "It's your 
choice, Harley." 

"Yes, I know it's my choice. That doesn't mean I'll make 
the right choice. Come on. Give me a clue here. You know 
something I don't, apparently." 

"Rama and Ovid are concerned." 

Harley couldn't help it. She rolled her eyes. "What do 
Rama and Ovid have to do with me? They're your spirit 
guides, not mine." 

"What you do affects me. You're my daughter. But perhaps 
it's best that you do go. It will help your father feel so much 
better." 

"Oh good Lord. That sounds ominous. I'm not going to 
have to get up on stage at one of his shows and throw my 
panties or anything like that, am I?" 

Diva laughed. "I'm sure not. Oh, will you let King in? The 
pet door is broken." 

Recognizing she wasn't going to learn anything else until 
her mother chose to tell her, Harley went to the back door 
and opened it. King, her father's black and white Border Collie 
named for Elvis, trotted inside. His paws were muddy, and 

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Evil Elvis 

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seeing as how there'd been no rain lately, that no doubt 
meant he'd been up to mischief again. 

"I thought the higher fence Yogi put up kept King from 
getting out," she said as she gave the dog a pat on the head 
that promptly elicited an ecstatic wiggle of his entire body. 

"It does. Why?" 

"His feet are wet. I'll bet he's been fishing in Mrs. Erland's 
pond again." 

"Perhaps he's just been in the garden. Yogi hooked up a 
watering system. King likes to go back there and sample 
tomatoes on occasion." 

That explained the glazed look in King's eyes. Yogi's illegal 
tobacco grew right next to the tomato plants, and the crop of 
both had a relaxing effect on those who indulged. Since King 
couldn't roll his own and smoke, he'd obviously found eating 
the tomatoes a nice substitution. Well, whatever kept him 
from being the neighborhood scourge had to be an 
improvement. 

"He seems much better behaved now," she remarked. 
"Maybe he's settling down." 

"The obedience classes helped, I think. How kind of the 
Border Collie Rescue to help out." 

"They just didn't want to get stuck with him. But I'm 
grateful for anything that keeps me from having to go looking 
for him at three in the morning." 

"You have an affinity for animals, Harley. I don't know why 
you resist it. That's a lovely talent to have." 

"Right. If you don't mind pet hair over all your clothes, on 
the floor, on the furniture, in your food—" 

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Evil Elvis 

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"So how is Sam?" 

Harley sighed. "He's fine. I can't believe I let Cami talk me 
into keeping that cat. I had to pay Mr. Lancaster a pet 
deposit. A hundred dollars, just so I can clean out a litter box 
and pay good money for a scratching post and toys that I use 
more than he does. He looks at me like I'm crazy when I try 
to get him to play with them. I think I've been had." 

"We don't often choose animals. They choose us. They're 
on a higher spiritual plane than we are and can sense people 
with good hearts." 

"Which explains why Sam is so picky about who pets him, 
I suppose. It's rather nice having a cat that's smarter than 
people." 

"He's not necessarily smarter, just isn't burdened with 
preconceived ideas about how things are supposed to be. He 
sees with all his senses. Just like King." 

While Diva smiled at the dog, who seemed to know good 
things were being said about him and wagged his tail so hard 
it should have flown across the room, Harley reflected on the 
simple truth that animals had some kind of pipeline to 
objectivity. They never let anything like concern about their 
next meal interfere with behavior patterns that bordered on 
criminal. If it wasn't for the cuteness factor, dogs would never 
have been allowed into that first cave. And she wasn't at all 
sure they were domesticated. Cats were definitely still 
undomesticated, despite the popular belief that they were 
house pets. They weren't. They just had good PR agents. 

"Listen to this," Yogi said from the kitchen doorway, and 
Harley turned, wincing a little at the sight of him still in his 

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Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Elvis getup. At least his pot belly had shrunk, and with his 
long sideburns, once he got his annual haircut he'd resemble 
Elvis pretty closely—if closely included cherubic cheeks and a 
nose that was a bit short, lips that were a little too thin, and 
height a couple of inches below six feet. The Elvis contest was 
the only time he ever cut his hair; the rest of the time he 
kept it in a ponytail. 

"We're listening," Harley said as her father hit a few chords 
on his guitar. 

Yogi launched into a pretty good imitation of Elvis singing 
Suspicious Minds. He really wasn't bad. Even his guitar 
playing had improved. 

"I've been taking guitar lessons from Eric," he said when 
she complimented him on how good he sounded. "This is the 
year I'll win. I just know it." 

Harley couldn't help a big smile. Yogi was always so certain 
he'd win, and when he lost, always so determined to win the 
next time. "I'll just bet you do win this year." 

He did another Elvis stance. "Thank you. Thank you verra 
much." 

Time to go. Harley left after the usual farewell rituals and 
stood on the front porch a minute before heading to her car 
parked at the curb. Huge oaks hung over the street on both 
sides, shading it save for a few patches of sunlight. 

Her parents' house was only a few blocks from the 
University of Memphis—formerly known as Memphis State, 
and before that, Normal State, the latter no doubt changed 
when it became obvious it was a more hopeful than realistic 
name. The Normal neighborhood had gone through many 

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Evil Elvis 

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transitions over the years. In the thirties up to the fifties it'd 
been full of young families, then older families. In the sixties, 
college kids and hippies painted flowers everywhere, grew pot 
in closets with sophisticated lighting, then melded like 
chameleons into yuppies and left it all in a shabby air of 
neglect. In the past decade or so, the transition had started 
all over again. Some of the older families like hers had stuck 
it out, but some of the houses were divided into rented rooms 
for university students. Now younger families had started 
buying and renovating the older homes in the area. Most of 
the families at this end of Douglass Street were older. On the 
other end, swing sets and kids' toys littered yards like some 
kind of plastic nuclear blast. 

A wide front porch ran the length of her parents' 
bungalow-style house. In summer it held chairs, in winter it 
held hardy plants. Now it held Harley's younger brother. Eric 
was just coming up the steps onto the porch. Tall, thin, and 
nearly always dressed in black, he smiled when he saw her. 

"Hey, cool chick." 

"Hey, dude." Standard greetings over, she asked him 
about his art classes the coming year at the University of 
Memphis, the heavy metal rock band he was in, and if he'd be 
going to the big Elvis finals competition with their parents. 
Provided Yogi made it that far. 

He shook his head, and afternoon light glittered off the 
earring in one ear. "Not this time. We've got a gig that night. 
Thank God." 

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Harley completely understood. "Yeah, I have to work. I 
hope. What color do you call that on your head? It looks 
pink." 

He brushed a hand over the gelled hair standing four 
inches high on his scalp. "Fuschia. It didn't turn out quite like 
I wanted." 

"That's a relief. I'd hate to think you were going for that 
look." 

"I'm thinking of shaving my head and tattooing the hair 
on." 

"Now there's a look guaranteed to break a mother's heart. 
I'll be glad when you grow out of this difficult stage. Think it'll 
be any time soon?" 

Eric just grinned. "Maybe. Maybe not." 

That was the thing about her family. They just drifted 
along at their own speed, heedless of convention or opinions, 
happy to just exist. Why couldn't she be like that? No, she 
had to be in this phase where she questioned everything 
about her life: her job, her direction, why she was still 
unmarried at nearly thirty, and even if she ever wanted to get 
married. 

Not that she did without male companionship. While she 
refused to think of it as a bona fide relationship, she certainly 
enjoyed all the perks of keeping company with Mike Morgan, 
the hottest undercover cop in Memphis. Three months, and 
things just got hotter. She liked to tell acquaintances that 
they'd met over murder. It was certainly a conversational 
icebreaker. And very nearly true. 

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So what if the beginning of their relationship had been a 
little rocky? It'd smoothed out. Perseverance and tolerance 
helped. Given his line of work, the sharp edges were 
understandable, if not always desirable. While most of the 
time, she saw only a killer bod, electric blue eyes, dark hair 
that was usually a little shaggy around the edges, and a grin 
that made her stomach do funny flips, he had another side 
that she wouldn't want to confront in a dark alley. Or even at 
high noon in the middle of the street. That side was feral and 
gave her shivers of the uh-oh kind. She'd only caught a 
glimpse of it a few times, and wasn't especially eager to see it 
again. She liked him much better when he was agreeable, 
even if a little intolerant about her stumbling over corpses. 

Later that evening, Morgan reminded her about his 
intolerance of her new direction in life. "Over two months 
without you finding a body or two lying around." He blew into 
her ear and she shivered. "I'm glad to see you've reformed." 

"I like to think of it as keeping better company, thank 
you." 

"No jewelry thieves, no smugglers—what do you do with 
all your spare time?" 

She slanted her eyes at him. "When I'm not being asked 
annoying questions by a naked man in my bed, I knit scarves 
for the homeless and hang out on street corners. It's not like 
I tried to find bodies, you know." 

"So you say. Baroni must be delirious with relief." 

"Bobby," she said, "is a jerk." 

"That's not a nice thing to say about an old friend. How 
would he feel if he heard you?" 

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"He's already heard it and didn't seem too bothered. We're 
not speaking at the moment. Sometimes we do that." 

Mike laughed softly. "Do I want to know what happened?" 

"Probably, but I'm not going to tell you." 

He rolled over on top of her and pinned her arms back to 
the pillows. "I have ways of making you talk, y'know." 

She looked up with a smile and whispered, "Do your worst, 
copper." 

"How about," he whispered back as he moved over her in a 
most intriguing way, "I do my best instead?" 

"I'm up for it." 

He smiled. "So am I." 

Oh yeah. 

* * * * 

Tootsie looked a bit frayed when Harley showed up for 
work a little earlier than usual the next morning. The phone 
was ringing, and paperwork had piled up on his desk. 

"You look like you had a bad night," she said, plopping the 
leather backpack she used as a purse down atop his desk. 
"Want me to help out?" 

"Grab the phone. Take a name and number and tell them 
we'll call back." He looked up at her, frustration in his eyes. 
"This time of year is always a bitch." 

"Isn't it?" She answered the phone for a few minutes, and 
when it finally stopped ringing, blew out a breath of relief. "I 
don't know how you do it. Some of these people are 
downright rude if they don't hear what they want to hear." 

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Tootsie batted his eyelashes. "I use my Southern charm. 
Works every time." 

She grinned. "Must be why I'm not very good at it. I failed 
that class." 

"You just spent too much time in California. It was all that 
commune living as a child. Southern charm is usually a 
requirement here." 

"Not for everyone. You do recall my Aunt Darcy and 
cousins?" 

"Ah yes. There are those who don't show up for class. 
What's up?" 

She got up from the chair and perched on the edge of his 
desk while he got back to the computer. "I don't suppose 
you'd schedule me for airport runs during the candlelight 
vigil? Or taking tourists to Beale Street? Or Victorian Village? 
Or AutoZone, or—" 

"I'd be happy to, but Charlsie already put in for the airport, 
and Jake got Beale Street, and Sharon took Victorian Village. 
Since your time off, they have seniority. I did have a Dixon 
Art Gallery run, but you're still banned from there so I sent 
Lydia. Sorry, baby." 

Harley sighed. "I understand. I don't like it, but I 
understand. Of course, if any of them get sick, I get first 
chance at their run. Deal?" 

"Deal." Tootsie laughed. "Just don't get any ideas." 

"You know me so well." She smiled. Thomas "Tootsie" 
Rowell was really one of her best friends. He'd hired her 
immediately when she'd answered the ad in the paper, and 
they'd gotten along famously ever since. She even attended 

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his shows at times, where he dressed up like Cher or 
Madonna or Liza Minnelli, or whoever caught his fancy. Hard 
to admit, but Tootsie was more gorgeous as a woman than 
most women. He wasn't much taller than she, only about five 
seven to her five six, and borrowed her dresses from her 
corporate days of wining and dining. She hated to admit he 
looked better in them than she ever had. But then, she was 
much more comfortable in jeans and a tee shirt anyway. 
Evening dresses had never been her style, and it probably 
showed every time she wore one. 

She'd been at Memphis Tour Tyme for a year now, and 
most of the time liked her job as a tour driver and occasional 
taxi service. That depended on where she was needed most, 
since the company had recently branched out into offering 
short runs as well as the regular tours. It'd taken a while to 
get the licensing and regulations straight, and required more 
training for the drivers so everyone could get their piece of 
the financial pie. But more vehicles were added to the fleet 
and all the drivers qualified. It wasn't like her former job in 
corporate banking. If she disliked the clients, she got rid of 
them at the end of the day, where before she'd had to deal 
with them on a regular basis. Not to mention several tiers of 
former bosses, some of whom were nice but most of whom 
were stereotypical jerks. Maybe she should have finished 
college, but at the time it hadn't seemed nearly as important 
as it did now. Ah, her shallow youth was behind her. She was 
now entering the halls of maturity. Things could be worse. 

Tootsie snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Hello? You 
in there?" 

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"Sorry. Just thinking how lucky I am to still have a job." 

"Baby, you just don't know." 

"Sure I do. You went to bat for me. I'm convinced you've 
got something on the ogre. If you didn't, I'd have been out 
the door back in May." 

"Don't get too comfortable. And for pity's sake, don't go 
around finding any more dead bodies." 

"Which makes me wonder—is there such a thing as finding 
live bodies?" 

Tootsie rolled his eyes. "Sometimes you act so blonde." 

"I am a blonde." 

"I know. But you're usually a smart blonde. There's a run 
you can take this afternoon. I know it's one you'll like. Elvis 
impersonators." 

"A taxi run? I thought I was scheduled for Tupelo." 

"They cancelled at the last minute. Fortunately for you, we 
have this one." 

She sighed. "I'm in hell." 

"Not until two o'clock, baby." 

By two-thirty, Harley was rethinking the entire tour guide 
thing. Just getting around town was a feat of luck and 
persistence. But now her ears hurt as well. All the Elvises 
sang at the same time—is the plural of Elvis called Elvi? she 
wondered, then winced at a particularly loud mix of Blue 
Christmas, Hound Dog, Don't Be Cruel, and Kentucky Rain. 
Normally—and separately—she liked those songs. All at the 
same time, however, they made her want to ram the van into 
the nearest telephone pole. As soon as she dropped these 

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guys off at the hotel for their contest, she intended to go to 
the nearest drug store and buy ear plugs. 

When she pulled into the covered parking area to unload 
her passengers, she managed a smile as she told them she'd 
be back for them at eight, and reminded them that if their 
schedule changed they were to call her cell phone or the 
offices at Memphis Tour Tyme. 

A rather portly Elvis paused in the door and said, "Thank 
you, thank you verra much" as he got out. If she had a nickel 
for every time she'd heard that or would hear that in the 
coming month, she could retire. 

However, she just said, "You're welcome, Elvis. Good 
luck." 

As always, she glanced back to make sure everyone was 
out before she left, and only one guy remained in the van. He 
was in the very back on the last seat. 

"Hey," she called, "last stop for all Elvi. This is it, sir. Sir?" 

He didn't respond, just remained in his seat staring out the 
window. Maybe he'd gotten cold feet. She didn't blame him. 
Grown men dressed up like Elvis and sweating on a stage had 
to be daunting. She should know. After all, Yogi went every 
year. It was his only brand of religion, other than his 
government conspiracy theories. The last she understood, but 
the first she found inexplicable. 

"Sir? Hey, Elvis?" 

He still sat there staring out the window, and with a sigh, 
Harley got out of the van and went around. She'd get him out 
with a can opener if she had to, but dammit, he was getting 

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out. She deserved someplace quiet for a while before she had 
to deal with the ride back to their hotels. 

"Hey, buddy," she said when she reached his seat, "we're 
here. Time to go on stage and sing your heart out. Knock 'em 
dead." 

When he still didn't respond, Harley put a hand on his 
shoulder to give him a slight shake out of his trance. He 
slumped forward, his head hit the back of the seat in front of 
him, and she jumped into the aisle. The hilt of a knife 
protruded from his back. She froze. This couldn't be 
happening. Not to him, not to her. 

Maybe it was a mistake. A bizarre, cruel joke. She leaned 
closer, and the rusty smell of blood made her stomach lurch. 
Backing slowly away, she fumbled at her waist for the cell 
phone that she now kept tethered to her with a chain, and hit 
speed dial. They answered quickly. 

"Nine-one-one?" she said in a voice that sounded a lot 
calmer than she felt. "We have another dead Elvis. 

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Evil Elvis 

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Chapter Two 

"Give me a description of all the other passengers." 

Harley stared at the uniformed officer. "Black hair, long 
sideburns, white jumpsuits—you're kidding, right? They all 
looked like Elvis." 

This was crazy. She had twelve passengers listed on her 
schedule of pickups, but there had been thirteen on board. 
None of the twelve remaining passengers on her list of 
pickups knew the extra, or so they said. Somehow, he'd 
slipped in on her. She should have counted heads as they 
boarded. Then maybe she'd have noticed an extra passenger. 

Shivering despite the afternoon's heat, Harley once more 
gave the officer a run-down of her schedule. The white crime 
scene unit van and a van from the morgue had arrived, and 
the area swarmed with police cars. Yellow tape screened off 
her MTT van, flashing blue lights cordoned off the parking lot, 
and there she stood in the middle of it all. It was just too 
familiar. 

"Dammit, Harley." 

She sighed. That was familiar, too. Unfortunately. She 
turned, managing a smile as Bobby Baroni approached. As a 
homicide detective, he always found things out too quickly. As 
a childhood friend who'd been party to—and often instigator 
of—one too many pranks in their old neighborhood, he knew 
her too well. Not only that, Bobby had that Italian macho 
thing going on, where he always had to be right. Or maybe 
that was just a male thing. 

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Even in the heat, he had on a suit and tie, a world's 
difference from the clothes he'd worn as a teenager. 
Somehow, the suit made him seem more remote, almost like 
a stranger instead of a guy she'd hung around with all 
through junior high and high school. College really did change 
some people. Or maybe life did the changing. 

When he reached her, she tried to sound casual and asked, 
"Hi, Bobby. How's it going?" 

He shook a cigarette out of a pack he took from his pocket, 
lit it, and squinted at her through the smoke. "Funny you 
should ask. I was sitting at my desk, happy I'd gone nearly 
two months without you being involved in a murder, and then 
came the phone call. I should have known better." 

"Really, Bobby. I'm not involved. I'm just the unlucky—and 
I'd like to point out unwilling—witness." 

"Yet here you are. With a dead man in the back of your 
van. How do you explain that?" 

"You have such a suspicious nature. Does your mother 
know you're smoking again?" 

"I get paid to be suspicious. And there are things my 
mother is better off not knowing. Can you tell me how the vic 
got stabbed in a van full of people without anyone noticing?" 

"A bomb could have gone off and no one would have 
noticed. They were singing. All at the same time, and all 
different songs. It was horrible." She shuddered again. This 
time it wasn't because of the singing, but the memory of the 
dead Elvis slumped in the back seat of the van. 

Bobby looked at her a little more closely. His family was 
Sicilian, a long line of shopkeepers and merchants who'd 

21



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immigrated to America for a better life some time in the 
middle of the nineteenth century. It was entirely possible her 
Irish ancestors had done business with them way back then, 
since many of the early Italian and Irish immigrants to 
Memphis had first settled along the river front. Her Irish 
ancestors had branched out to become farmers, and his 
family had done well with grocery markets and liquor stores. 
Both had no doubt dabbled in bootlegging. It'd been quite 
profitable during Prohibition. 

"You okay?" Bobby asked, and she shrugged. 

"I should be getting used to dead bodies by now, but 
somehow, I'm not." 

Bobby nodded, took a last puff off his cigarette, then 
dropped it and ground it into the hot pavement. "Don't leave 
town," he said as he walked off to interview the other 
passengers. 

Maybe she should leave town. Bad things seemed to 
happen to people in her vicinity. It was as if she was a 
murder magnet lately. She'd gone nearly thirty years with no 
trouble at all, and suddenly poof! Bodies began popping up 
everywhere around her. It was crazy. 

Sitting glumly on the edge of a concrete planter 
overflowing with petunias, she had to bite her nails instead of 
smoke a cigarette, which she really would have preferred. But 
she'd quit before she'd started her new career as a cadaver 
dog. 

When her cell phone rang, she hesitated. It wasn't going to 
be a good conversation, and it didn't matter who was on the 
other end. Maybe she shouldn't answer it. No point in getting 

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even more depressed. But Dixie played louder and louder, so 
she finally gave in and answered the persistent caller. It was 
Tootsie. 

"Harley, what the hell?" 

"I take it you've been notified." 

"You could have called to warn me, you know." 

"I could have ... should have ... would have, but it was 
kind of a shock finding him like that with a knife in his back." 

"Hon, it seems to me you should be used to that sort of 
thing by now." 

"Well, perhaps, but does anyone ever really get used to 
finding bodies? Except maybe the coroner? Or the police? Or 
soldiers, they must be used to it. Oh, and doctors—" 

"Focus, baby, you're sounding a little hysterical." 

Harley took a deep breath. "I've bitten my nails down to 
the first knuckles. I have nubs for fingers. If I don't stop it 
soon, I'll consider bumming a cigarette." 

"Don't. Too hard to hold with nubs. Listen, I'll send 
someone to pick you up as soon as you're released by the 
police." 

"What should I do about the other Elvises ... Elvi? What's 
the plural? I was wondering about that just before ... before I 
found a dead one in the back seat." 

"Jesus. You really are a basket case. Don't worry about the 
other Elvises. I'll get someone else to take your return trip. I 
don't think you need to be driving right now." 

"I'm just fine." 

"Darling, not even close. Stay there. I'm sending someone 
to get you." 

23



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Maybe Tootsie was right. Her hands were shaking, and she 
curled her fingers into her palms. Violent death had no 
resemblance to peacefully laid out bodies in funeral homes, 
with the soft music and sweet-smelling flowers, the hushed 
voices and cushioned furniture. This was ugly, abrupt, and 
seemed a lot more final than lying in a plush walnut coffin 
wearing make-up and best clothes. She tried not to think 
about the Elvis's face, that vacant, sightless stare into 
eternity. 

Another shiver trickled down her spine. She clasped her 
hands together, crossed her legs at the ankles and waited for 
someone to arrive to take her away from death. 

Just her luck, Mike Morgan showed up as her ride. What 
was Tootsie thinking? He should know that Morgan had much 
the same view on her being in the same vicinity of a body as 
Bobby had. It was terribly inconvenient and very annoying 
that they now viewed her as some kind of lure for murder. 

Mike was in his own car, a vintage red Corvette that he left 
parked by one of the squad cars. She watched him saunter 
over to Bobby Baroni and talk to him for a few minutes, and 
both of them looked toward her. They were talking about her, 
of course. She had no desire to know what they were saying. 
It was never complimentary when this sort of thing 
happened. 

It'd be so much easier if Morgan didn't make her stomach 
feel all squishy inside when he looked at her. He had that 
lean-hipped, dangerous look going on, dressed in a black tee 
shirt, faded black Levis, and what she called his SWAT boots. 
Somewhere on his body—close to all the masculine 

24



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

equipment he'd been born with—he had probably stashed a 
few weapons of the lethal variety. Tools of his trade, he called 
them. She liked his natural tool best. 

When he finally started toward her, she got up from the 
concrete planter. She put her hands on her hips and watched 
him walk across the driveway. As did a few other women. She 
didn't mind. They couldn't help it. Morgan seemed to have 
that effect on women. 

The best defense is a good offense, she thought, and said 
aloud, "Damn, what took you so long? My butt's asleep from 
sitting on this concrete for the past three hours, and the only 
thing I've had to eat is my fingernails." 

He didn't smile. "Are you going to make a habit of this?" 

"Biting my nails?" 

"No, Harley, finding bodies. Baroni thinks you may be a 
serial killer." 

"Bobby's still mad because I told him to stay away from 
Cami unless he was serious. She takes things to heart and 
he's a serial boyfriend." 

"Stay out of Baroni's love life. Dammit, what the hell is 
going on with you?" 

She stared at him incredulously. "You're mad at me 
because some Elvis got stabbed in my van?" 

He looked frustrated and angry. "Has it occurred to you 
that one of these days I'll show up at a crime scene and find 
you laid out? Do you ever think about that?" 

"No," she said sarcastically, "I'm just always happy to see 
you, too." 

25



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Blowing out a harsh breath, he looked away from her, 
raked a hand through his dark hair and obviously struggled 
for control. When he looked back at her, his voice was 
reasonable but his eyes were still dark blue with frustration. 

"How do you think this looks to the department? Next 
thing I know, internal affairs is going to be breathing down 
my neck, wanting to know why I'm seeing someone who 
leaves behind a trail of bodies wherever she goes." 

"Isn't that your line of work?" 

Morgan said grimly, "Most of my arrests are of live bodies, 
not dead ones. You've found more corpses in four months 
than I've found in four years." 

"Well, pardon me if I've inconvenienced you. It's not like I 
go around looking for them, you know." She glared at him. 
Her throat hurt. This was their first real fight since becoming 
a "couple," and with her nerves already shredded, tears 
would be just too humiliating. 

"Don't bother giving me a ride. I'll call a taxi," she said 
stiffly, and turned to walk away. 

Mike grabbed her arm right above the elbow and turned 
her around. "Christ, let's not argue about it. I'm giving you a 
ride." 

She pushed his hand off her arm and squared off from 
him, bristling. "Touch me again and I'll punch you." 

His brow shot up, but he didn't reach for her again. "Okay. 
So it's going to be like that. If I say I'd like to take you 
home, please, does that sound better?" 

26



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"That depends. Is this an 'I want to take you home 
because you're upset' thing, or an 'I have to take you home 
to make sure you don't find another body' thing?" 

"Mostly the first one. Some of the second one." 

She thought about that for a moment, and then nodded. 
"Okay. That sounds fair." 

The ride home was quiet, except for the radio. Uncle 
Kracker sang Follow Me, and Harley drummed her fingers to 
the beat and stared out the window. Fortunately, it wasn't too 
far to her apartment. Pea gravel crunched under the 
Corvette's tires when he came to a stop in back of the red 
brick house divided into four apartments. 

"You don't have to come up," she said, opening her door 
and putting her feet out before he even had the brake set. 
"I'm fine." 

"I'm sure you are. I'm coming up anyway. Unless you tell 
me I can't." 

"No, I'm not saying that. I have a feeling it wouldn't do me 
any good if I did." She looked at him over her shoulder. 

He turned off the ignition. "You know better than that." 

"Yeah. I guess I do. Okay. Come up if you want." 

It felt so awkward and stiff, when she really wanted it to 
be like it'd always been before. She wasn't good at this kind 
of thing. She did just fine as long as things went along 
smoothly, but the first bump in the relationship road, and she 
came unraveled. There was a string of past boyfriends to 
prove that. Only one long-term love in her life before Morgan, 
if she didn't count George, the fish she had released in the 
Audubon Park koi pond. And, of course, Sam, who'd wheedled 

27



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

his way into her life with a pair of big blue eyes and a few 
moves that had twice saved her from disaster. 

But she'd begun to think Morgan might just be The One. 
She should have known better. Her track record of failed 
relationships was nearly as bad as Bobby's. 

Sam greeted her at the door with a disapproving miaoow 
that escalated into a chorus of complaints until she poured 
more dry food into his bowl and added a little canned food to 
the top of it. Siamese cats could be very vocal, not that she 
minded too much. She and Sam made a nice duet. 

"I have leftover takeout," she said to Morgan, "if you want 
anything to eat." 

"If it's Taco Bell, no thanks. That's better fresh." 

"Chinese." 

"Sounds good." He seemed to feel as awkward as she did, 
and she didn't know quite how to take that. Was he working 
up to a break up or just still upset about the dead Elvis in her 
van? 

Only one way to find out. 

"So," she said when she put the heated plate of fried rice 
and egg rolls in front of him, "is this a break up?" 

He gave her a startled look. "What are you talking about?" 

"Me finding bodies. You not liking that. Us. Maybe we need 
to talk about it." 

"Yeah. Well. I'm not really good at that kind of 
conversation." 

"Me either." She sat down in the chair opposite him, and 
Sam immediately jumped up on the cushioned arm to sniff 
her plate. He purred. Little beggar. She gave him a piece of 

28



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

rice and he gave her a horrified look. Then he leaped down to 
cross to Morgan, who had chicken fried rice. 

Morgan obliged the cat with a piece of chicken, and then 
looked over at Harley. "Maybe we just need a break from 
each other. Just for a couple weeks or a month. Something 
like that. Give us time to think about ... things." 

Her throat got tight, but she nodded casually. "I think 
you're right. I don't want you to feel like I'm jeopardizing 
your job, and lately I can't seem to stop tripping over bodies. 
I don't know what it is. Some kind of murder magnet, I 
guess." 

One corner of his mouth tucked into a wry smile. "Any 
chance you can get rid of it?" 

"Always a chance, but since I don't know how I got it, I 
don't know how to get rid of it." 

After a moment of heavy silence he said, "It's just that 
we've got this big case going on, it takes a lot of time and all 
my concentration. Sometimes it's a good thing that you're a 
distraction. This isn't one of those times. I think about you 
when I should be thinking about the case. Now you're mixed 
up in another screwy murder case, and I'll be worrying about 
you. If I knew—" 

"No, it's okay. Really. I understand. And I don't blame you. 
I worry about you, too, and when you're on an undercover 
assignment, you don't need to be thinking about anything 
else. I couldn't stand it if I caused you to be hurt or killed." 

It was even more awkward after that, and when he left, 
she gave him a kiss on the cheek and closed the door behind 
him. Sam, perched atop the back of the off-white cushioned 

29



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

chair in the living room, paused in washing his face with his 
paw to look up at her quizzically. 

"Looks like I blew another one," she said, but it didn't 
seem to make any difference to the cat. He went back to 
washing his face. She threw out the rest of the Chinese, 
washed up the dirty dishes, cleaned cat hair off the chair and 
poured herself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher she kept 
in the refrigerator. Then she went out to sit on the small 
balcony that overlooked Overton Park and the zoo. White 
concrete banisters curved into graceful knots next to red brick 
walls. She sat in her chair, propped her feet up on the railing, 
and sucked down nearly half of the tea in one or two gulps. 
Early evening silence began to settle on the neighborhood. 
Rush hour traffic had eased, joggers and mosquitoes came 
out, and people walked their dogs in the park. 

It was a great place to live. A stately, dark-red brick 
structure that looked more like an old house than an 
apartment building because it had once housed a single 
family, it now held four separate apartments. Concrete 
balconies and curvy masonry trim were kept a bright white, 
and the magnolia tree in the front yard looked to be at least 
thirty feet high. It had survived all storms so far, and creamy 
blossoms that smelled lemony sweet grew big as dinner 
plates every year. Oak trees shaded the back, and hedges 
along each side of the green front yard muffled noise from the 
street and provided shelter to so many birds it sounded like 
an aviary most of the time. 

The neighborhood was a mix of one-family homes and 
apartment buildings like this one, a quiet area of Memphis, or 

30



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

as quiet as it could be with the busy thoroughfare of Poplar 
Avenue only a stone's throw away. At night, she heard the 
shriek of peacocks and the roar of lions and tigers in the zoo. 
During the day, the grumble of city bus engines drowned out 
other sounds. In the summertime, the nights held the busy 
whine of mosquitoes looking for their next meal. She slapped 
at one on her arm and thought about going inside. 

Her house phone rang. Suddenly, going inside wasn't that 
appealing. Phone calls these days rarely held good news. 
There was the chance it could be a harmless call, but why be 
foolish? While she debated, it rang again and her answering 
machine clicked on. Diva's husky alto drifted out the open 
doors. "Harley, nothing is forever, not even the bad times." 

That was so Diva. She always seemed to know things. 
Very disconcerting. Of course, Diva could mean anything from 
Sorry you found a dead body to Sorry you can't find that ten 
dollars to balance your checkbook. But knowing Diva, it was 
about the other calamity in her daughter's life. Morgan. 

Sighing, Harley got up and went inside to pick up the 
phone. "I know," she said. 

"This will pass, Harley. Then all will be well again." 

Sam jumped onto her lap when she sat down in the chair, 
and she started stroking his soft fur with her free hand. He 
began to purr loudly and, oddly enough, it made her feel 
better. "Any chance I can hold you to that?" she asked her 
mother. 

Diva laughed softly. "See? You'll be fine. The circle must 
be completed." 

31



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

A soft throb started behind her eyes, and Harley put her 
fingers to her temples. "What circle? Or do I want to know?" 

When Diva went off into her talk of mantras and chakras 
and chi and spirit guides and all that other stuff she believed 
in, Harley thought about the baker's dozen of Elvises that had 
been on the van. One of them had to be the killer. The guy 
didn't stab himself in the back. If she went over the list of 
passengers to be picked up at the hotels, maybe she could 
remember who got on where. The odd man out would be the 
killer. This time, though, she intended to give the info to 
Bobby and not go off on her own. It only caused more 
trouble. 

And right now, that was the last thing she needed. 

Maybe she should go on vacation. Get some fresh air, see 
new sights, leave town for a while until this all blew over. 

"Harley?" Diva said, sounding like she'd said her name a 
few times before. 

"Sorry. Just focusing on what I should do instead of what I 
did do." 

"You didn't cause anything. It's just that your life force is 
so strong it generates energy that attracts negative as well as 
positive. There's a reason for that." 

"What is it? I'd give a week's pay to know." 

Diva's laugh was soft. "It will come to you." 

"Right. Let's hope it comes in time." 

"It will. Your spirit guides are keeping you safe." 

"I think my spirit guides took a flight to Vegas. How come 
they never show up when I need them?" 

"But they do, Harley. They're always with you." 

32



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Today they're on a winning streak at the blackjack tables. 
Looks to me like it's time to get them back on the job." 

"No need. It was the Elvis who died today, not you." 

Diva had a point. 

Harley thought about that while she was brushing her 
teeth before bed. There had been some narrow escapes 
lately. Bobby had said it was sheer dumb luck that kept her 
alive, but what did he know? He never gave her enough 
credit. And Morgan—well, obviously he didn't give her much 
either. 

Not that she could blame him. A brief inspection in the 
bathroom mirror was reason enough for any man with half-
decent eyesight to run the opposite way. The gelled blond 
spikes of her favorite hairstyle had gone limp. She looked like 
a drowned hedgehog. Her hair was a little too long to stick up 
like it should, anyway. Maybe it needed to be cut again. Or 
grown out. Such a major decision required another opinion. 
She turned to look at the cat sitting atop the closed toilet lid. 

"What do you think, Sam? Should I let my hair grow out or 
get it cut?" 

Sam offered no opinion either way. He continued to clean 
his face with a paw and ignore her plight. Just like a male. 
Never there when you really needed them. 

That made her think of her latest purchase. A sexy pair of 
red silk panties she'd bought at Victoria's Secret and tucked 
into her underwear drawer for a special occasion. She'd 
planned on wearing them for Morgan. A surprise for him since 
her usual choice was plain white cotton bikinis and a sports 
bra. Not exactly sexy, but she'd never heard any complaints. 

33



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Now, of course, he'd miss the red silk panties. Damn him. 

34



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Three 

"Leave it alone, baby." Tootsie frowned and leaned closer 
to her. "It never works out good when you start meddling." 

"I'm not meddling. I'm investigating. And I intend to turn 
over anything I find out to the police, so you don't need to 
worry about me going off on my own anymore." 

"Uh hunh. I seem to remember you saying that a time or 
two before. And look how that turned out." 

Sitting in a chair behind the reception desk with the 
printouts he'd gotten for her, she dismissed the reminder with 
a wave of her hand. "This time is different. I'm only going 
over this list of passengers to see if I can match the name to 
the face. The one I don't recall will be the killer. It's very 
simple. Some guy snuck on the van in the middle of the other 
Elvises, and for some reason, killed one of them." 

"Right. And this became your problem how?" 

"When I found a dead Elvis with a knife in his back, for 
starters." 

"You know what I mean, honey. Let the police handle it. 
They'll match names to faces and figure out who was 
supposed to be where. Somehow, they usually manage to find 
the perp." 

"The perp? I love it when you talk cop to me. So how is 
Steve?" 

Steve was Tootsie's significant other, though Harley had 
never met him and had serious doubts as to his existence. 

35



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Still, it was polite to ask about him, and a good way to 

change the subject. 

Tootsie grinned. "Gorgeous as always. How's your cop?" 

"Gone." She tried not to flinch when she said that. For 
some reason, Morgan had gotten to her more than any guy 
ever had. That should have been her first clue that he'd take 
off. 

Tootsie sat back in his office chair and stared at her. "What 
do you mean, gone?" 

"Like the wind, you know—pfftt! Off to play with the bad 
guys and leave us bad girls behind, I guess." 

"I don't believe it. He's crazy about you." 

"Apparently not. I think it's my habit of hanging around 
with dead guys. Seems to make some cops nervous." 

"Understandable. Harley—what's going on?" 

"I don't know. Maybe it's just time for us to be over. We 
had a pretty good run, I guess. May until July isn't too bad." 

Tootsie rolled his eyes. "And they say men aren't 
monogamous. What are you going to do now?" 

"Figure out which of these guys wasn't supposed to be on 
that van, and then call Bobby. After that, I've got a run to 
Graceland, right?" 

"Right. But if you aren't up to it—" 

"I'm fine. It's not the end of the world, just a guy." She 
left it like that, and after a minute Tootsie went back to work 
at the computer and answering the phone. Good thing. She 
wasn't at all sure she felt that way this time. Dammit. 

The best antidote for uncertainty was work. Or so she'd 
heard. 

36



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

It was harder than she'd thought matching the names to 
faces, especially when she hadn't really looked at them. They 
all looked the same, some taller, shorter, thinner, fatter, but 
basically all alike. And photos on driver's licenses were 
notoriously bad anyway. Her photo looked like a demented 
David Bowie, for instance, her lip curled in a sneer that she'd 
meant as a smile, and hair standing up atop her head like 
she'd stuck her finger into an electrical socket. It was the only 
picture of her where the resemblance to her brother could be 
seen. Except Eric's eyes were blue, hers were green, and he 
had chameleon-color hair while hers usually stayed light 
blond with a few darker streaks. 

By the time she had to leave to pick up the van for her run 
to Graceland, she still hadn't figured out who was who. She'd 
only matched four names with Elvis faces, and that was 
because she figured out the tallest, shortest, fattest, thinnest. 
Maybe she couldn't help out after all. Not a bad thing. Her 
efforts at help in the past had only led to disaster anyway. 
This had to be a karmic sign. She needed to think about 
something else for a change, so she picked up her van and 
headed out. 

One good thing about driving in Memphis—it required the 
concentration of a NASCAR driver to get to a destination 
without playing bumper cars. An excellent distraction. 

Poplar Avenue traffic was always heavy. Today, as always, 
there were Memphis drivers who celebrated sunshine with 
their usual disregard for courtesy or traffic lights. A driver 
with Tennessee plates on his rusty El Camino leaned on his 
horn and yelled "Mississippi driver!" at a transgressor, and 

37



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

the driver in the shiny new SUV from DeSoto County, just 
across the Mississippi state line only a few miles south of 
Memphis, returned the welcome greeting with a snappy one-
finger salute. Tourism at its best. West Tennessee, North 
Mississippi, and a wide strip of eastern Arkansas formed the 
Mid-South, or Tri-State area. Memphis was the crossroads for 
trucks, trains, and planes delivering merchandise in the 
Southeast and up the Eastern Seaboard. Home of Federal 
Express, Nike, a Northwest Airlines hub, Elvis Presley, BB 
King, and the Grizzlies basketball team—all lucrative 
enterprises—Memphis was the last stop before I-55 dipped 
into the Deep South. It also made quite a handy route for 
drug traffickers transporting their products out of Mexico to 
customers up north. 

Changes in the past three decades included a lot more 
than integrated schools and a black mayor. Martin Luther 
King had died in a shabby motel downtown, bringing Memphis 
infamy back in the sixties, but Elvis had already integrated 
music with his love of gospel and the blues. Once known as 
just a "big country town," Memphis had imported more than 
its share of residents from as far away as China, and quite a 
few from places like New Jersey and Michigan. Chinese 
restaurants and Sharp manufacturing employees were 
welcomed, and longtime residents greeted them with friendly 
curiosity. 

For all its veneer of recent sophistication, many old-time 
Memphians had never forgotten Union occupation during the 
Civil War and considered Southern general Nathan Bedford 
Forrest a war hero. A statue of Forrest stood tall and proud in 

38



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

a small park on Union Avenue in the heart of the medical 
district, marking his and his wife's graves. On the river bluffs 
downtown, despite some efforts to rename it, Confederate 
Park overlooked the Mississippi, its cannons aimed at invisible 
enemies. Tom Lee Park celebrated the heroics of a black 
citizen who'd pulled people to safety after a horrific boiler 
explosion on a riverboat, and the site hosted the annual 
worldwide barbecue every May. Riverboats docked at the 
river daily, and it was a big deal when the Memphis Queen 
paddle-wheeler stopped on its way downriver to New Orleans. 
Nineteenth-century bricks made walking to the boats rough, 
barges slogged down the middle of the river dragging wide 
wakes, and smaller paddle-wheelers made daily trips along 
the riverbanks for tourists. The city skyline had the glass 
Pyramid at one end, and President's Island with a toxic waste 
dump and dusty concrete plant at the other. Sandbars and 
wide expanses of muddy water lay on the southern horizon. 
Despite—or maybe because of—all its diversity, Memphis had 
a reputation for Southern hospitality. 

Born in California and transplanted in Memphis sixteen 
years ago, Harley was glad to do her part at welcoming 
paying tourists. It beat dealing with former bosses at a 
banking corporation. 

The group she picked up at their hotel was pretty sedate. 
They were English, and not only excited to be here, but 
polite. The excitement in the van increased as the tourists 
saw the billboard and Graceland exit signs when she got off 
the Interstate at Brooks and Elvis Presley. 

39



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Has it always been named Elvis Presley Boulevard," one of 
the ladies asked, "or was it named that after he died?" 

"After he died. Before then, it was called Highway 51 on 
this end, and Bellevue inside the city limits," Harley replied. 
"My mother met Elvis back in the sixties. Ann-Margret and 
some other celebrities were there, riding motorcycles in the 
horse pasture. She hung over the stone fence to get his 
autograph." 

It was just a little tidbit of personal information that Elvis 
fans usually liked to hear, as well as the regular spiel. 

"Did he act like just a regular bloke," one of the men 
asked, "or was he shirty?" 

Harley grinned. She loved the way the English talked. 
"Elvis was always courteous. He really appreciated his fans, 
even though it meant he was almost a prisoner in his own 
house." 

"Sad, the way Elvis died. Too bad he couldn't have the 
street named after him before he went. Guess that's the way 
it is, right? Most people aren't truly appreciated until they're 
gone," the lady commented rather sadly. 

Harley thought about that after she let them out behind 
the tourist shops to get on the EPE—Elvis Presley 
Enterprises—van that'd take them across the busy street to 
the Graceland mansion. The tourist was right. People took 
others for granted far too often, and she'd been just as guilty 
of that as anyone else. 

Mike came to mind. It wasn't that she hadn't appreciated 
him, because she had, but she hadn't thought about how her 
actions affected him or his job. She felt a little guilty. It was a 

40



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

lot different than with Bobby because, after all, he was just 
her friend, not her boyfriend. Besides the ribbing he took 
from cohorts, Mike had to be put in an awkward position 
every time she stumbled across another body. 

But damn, it wasn't like she was trying to infiltrate 
undercover operations or anything. He had to know that. 
Didn't he? Maybe he'd just been looking for an excuse to cut 
out. Her finding bodies may have been the excuse he'd 
needed to move on. It was possible. She'd done the same 
thing herself a few times—grab at the first thing she could to 
make a graceful exit from a relationship that wasn't working. 
Sometimes her tongue outpaced her brain, but being unkind 
wasn't her style. Not like that. Hurting others was 
unnecessary. Most of the time. 

Harley had a brief guilty pang about her caustic 
relationship with her cousins, but that was the way they'd 
always communicated. Though after risking her own life 
helping them out of a tight spot with a smuggler, murderer, 
and possible prison terms, their relationships had greatly 
improved in the last couple of months. It'd certainly make 
future family reunions more pleasant. 

Anyway, now that she was on the receiving end of the 
"take a break" letdown, it still stung, no matter how nicely it 
was meant. A lesson for the future. An honest "this isn't 
working" was better than waiting for a phone call that would 
never come. 

Diva was right. As usual. Karma had a way of biting you in 
the butt just when things seemed to be best. 

41



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

As she was contemplating past sins and thinking about a 
cold Coke, a scream came from one of the other tour vans 
parked nearby. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, 
and she stuck her head out her still open van window to see 
what was going on. It was another Memphis Tour Tyme van, 
one of the larger ones that held two dozen people. Once it 
had been a Head Start school bus, but that was before the 
renovation of white paint and fancy blue lettering. 

She didn't get out of the van because, after all, it was 
probably just a scream of frustration after listening to two 
dozen Elvises all singing at the same time. But then it came 
again in a shriller tone. Damn. She recognized that high 
pitch—Lydia Free. 

Sighing, she got out of her van and crossed the parking 
lot. Waves of heat came up from the asphalt, shimmering. A 
canvas canopy covering steps leading to the shops and ticket 
booths flapped in an erratic breeze. The MTT bus door was 
open, and she saw Lydia standing on the second step, craning 
her neck to peer inside. Lydia had brown frizzy hair that 
Memphis humidity didn't improve, pale skin dotted with 
freckles, and a nervous tic under one eye most of the time. 
Her skinny frame looked frozen in place, one foot on the top 
step, and one foot on the second, white-knuckled fingers 
clutching the sides of the open door. Wheezing sounds came 
from her open mouth. 

"Hey Lydia," Harley began, but Lydia turned and launched 
her body outward like an Air Force rocket. She landed on 
Harley. Immediately engulfed in a babbling, hysterical grip, 

42



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Harley made some wheezing noises of her own before she got 
out, "Let go!" 

When Lydia didn't release her strangling hold, Harley used 
a move she'd learned in a recent course on driver safety and 
self-protection, and twisted free. Mr. Penney's money had not 
been spent in vain. There was no need to use a stun gun at 
all. 

"Jeez, you've got a grip like a python," she said when she 
could breathe. She firmly held Lydia at arm's length in case 
she coiled around her again. "What happened?" 

"B-b-b-obby," Lydia got out, and Harley frowned. 

"Bobby? Bobby who?" 

"No!" Lydia took a deep breath and said clearly, "Body!" 

"As in—dead?" 

Lydia's head bobbed energetically up and down. 

Oh no. "Are you sure the person isn't just napping?" 

Now Lydia's teeth were chattering. "Pretty s-s-sure. But 
maybe ... he is?" 

Probably not. Lydia would have scared him awake by now. 
Harley felt queasy. She didn't want to deal with this. Maybe it 
was a mistake. Maybe the man was deaf. A lot of old geezers 
got all dressed up every year and wiggled their drooping 
butts, remembering a better time. That had to be it. She 
looked at Lydia. 

"I'll check." She stepped up into the bus. Lydia was known 
to overreact. Why Mr. Penney allowed her to take a vehicle 
onto the Memphis streets was beyond comprehension, but 
apparently Lydia was his niece or cousin, or something like 
that. 

43



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Sitting in the fifth row by the window, an Elvis 
impersonator sprawled halfway off the seat. Harley's heart 
thudded into overdrive. Her stomach twisted when she got 
close. He certainly looked dead. His mouth hung open and his 
eyes were half-closed. She leaned closer. 

"Sir? Elvis?" 

Nothing. 

She didn't want to touch him. You'd think she could tell a 
dead person from a live one by now, but apparently it didn't 
work that way. He could just be asleep. Her cousin Maddie 
slept with one or both eyes open, a really freakish thing to 
see in the middle of the night. 

Finally, she squelched her squeamishness and put out a 
hand to give him a slight shake. It didn't help that Lydia 
screeched from the bus door, "Don't touch him!" 

"If that voice doesn't wake the dead, he's past help," 
Harley muttered, but determinedly gave Elvis a gentle shake. 

His head lolled forward on his chest at a crooked angle, 
and that was when she saw the tiny object sticking out from 
his neck. It looked like a penknife that kids used to carry, but 
obviously it could be pretty lethal. A thin stream of blood 
trickled down his neck and under the collar of his white 
jumpsuit. Oh boy. 

She turned to look at Lydia still hanging back in the 
doorway. Eyes as big as duck eggs looked back at her. Lydia's 
lips worked, and then she whispered, "Is ... is he...?" 

"Dead as last Sunday's dinner." 

* * * * 

44



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Why are you here? This isn't even your jurisdiction." 
Harley couldn't believe Bobby had shown up. As if she wasn't 
already feeling queasy and lightheaded. She'd never get used 
to death up close and fresh. Now he'd make it worse. "Isn't 
Graceland in the South precinct?" she asked crankily. 

"Yes. I'd ask why you're here, but that'd be redundant. 
There's a body here, so of course you're here, too." 

"That's not fair." 

"The list of unfair things is too long to contemplate right 
now. Who found the DB?" 

"Lydia Free." 

"And again, why are you here?" 

"I had a van full of tourists. They're up at the mansion 
right now." 

"Where is this Lydia Free?" 

"Follow the shrieks. The EMTs had to give her oxygen. 
They shouldn't have. It's only made her louder." 

For a moment, Bobby stood looking at her where she sat in 
the driver's seat of her own van. He didn't look angry, but 
sort of perplexed, like he was trying to figure out the square 
root of an isosceles triangle or some other complicated math 
problem. 

Harley stared back at him warily since he got so testy 
whenever she was in the vicinity of a dead body. "Harley," he 
finally said in a tone she recognized as bordering on the edge 
of angry, "are you trying to piss off everybody you know, or 
just me?" 

"Just you, of course," she snapped back, "no one else is as 
much fun." 

45



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"One more reason you go through boyfriends so fast," he 
observed. "You've never forgotten how to make men go 
crazy. Still trying to get over me?" 

She glared at him. Apparently, he'd already talked to 
Morgan. How else would he know they'd split up? Not that she 
cared. It wasn't like Bobby could brag about longevity in 
relationships. If it wasn't for the fact they'd long ago decided 
platonic worked better than any of that physical stuff, he'd 
probably be just a faint memory anyway. At the tender age of 
sixteen, she'd spent a most interesting night on the backseat 
of Bobby's car with Meatloaf playing Paradise By the 
Dashboard Lights on the radio. Not long after that they'd both 
come to the mutual conclusion they did a lot better as just 
friends. Bobby had that sexy Italian charm going on, but he 
tended to get a little too possessive, a trait that made her a 
little too homicidal. 

"Don't flatter yourself, Bobby," she replied in reference to 
his conceited inference that she'd never gotten over him. 
When he kept looking at her, she said, "What? Do I have dirt 
on my nose?" 

"I'm trying to decide if that's hair gel or horns on top of 
your head." 

"Very funny." 

"I'm glad one of us is amused. How do you do it? How do 
you go nearly thirty years without getting anything worse 
than traffic tickets, and then in the space of three months run 
across five corpses?" 

"Just lucky I guess. And this makes six. Don't forget the 
guy in the warehouse." This conversation was eerily similar to 

46



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

the one she'd had with Morgan, and she'd had enough. "Since 
I'm not really involved, I'm going to pick up my passengers 
and take them back to their hotel. Am I released?" 

He snapped his notebook shut and jammed his pen in the 
breast pocket of his suit coat. He looked rumpled and tired. 
And pissed off. "I'll need your official statement." 

"I can find my way to the precinct with my eyes closed by 
now." 

"Which explains the unusually high rate of traffic accidents 
lately." 

She didn't dignify that with a reply. Haughty aloofness was 
a much better response. 

Bobby stepped back as Harley got out of the van and 
headed for the shops to find her tour group. They were in one 
of the gift shops across from Graceland, mulling over ceramic 
replicas of the mansion mounted on top of music boxes, and 
discussing the exchange rate between pounds and dollars. 
She pulled out a calculator and helped them figure it out, 
then accompanied them to a store that specialized in Elvis 
CDs and tapes. Elvis videos played on one of the TV sets, a 
continuous stream of different songs. As much as she came 
here, Harley was always reminded anew of Elvis's sheer 
talent. Dark walls in the small museum built behind Elvis's 
house had rows upon rows of gold and platinum records to 
attest to that. There had never been anyone like him before 
he burst onto the music scene, and there would never be 
anyone else like him, a man recognized the world over the 
moment his distinctive voice was heard. 

47



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Finally they left the shops and headed for the van. Police 
tape stretched around the bus, and cruisers with lights still 
flashing barricaded it. Bobby was still there, talking with other 
officers. She'd been hoping they'd all be gone by now. 

"Bloody hell," one of the men in her group exclaimed, 
"what happened here?" 

Not wanting to alarm the tourists, Harley just said that a 
passenger had died. Let the cops get them alarmed. They 
were better equipped to handle hysteria than she was. Of 
course, the police took down names, addresses, and any 
pertinent information from each one, and a statement as to 
what they saw or didn't see. That took a while, so Harley got 
into her van and turned on the AC. Might as well be 
comfortable while waiting. 

A familiar tingle in her right jeans pocket signaled an 
incoming call on her cell phone. She ignored it. Bobby had 
unnerved her. Dammit. Why did this keep happening to her? 
Okay, it was bad enough it seemed to be happening to 
Elvises, but it was beginning to look really bad that she 
always seemed to be around when it did. She rested her head 
against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, waiting for 
the police to finish taking statements and move some cruisers 
out of the way so she could leave. In a few minutes the cell 
phone vibrated again, humming against her hip. 

Finally, giving in to the inevitable, she played back the 
messages. Tootsie. Three times. All sounding a little frantic. 

"Harley," he said on the last call, "Lydia's tourists need a 
ride and all the other vans are too far out to get there quickly 
enough. Call me, girlfriend. I'm getting desperate here." 

48



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

She called him back to tell him she'd have to drop her 
group off first, and then she would have room to take some of 
Lydia's tourists to their hotel. 

"Thank God." He sounded relieved. "Charlsie can pick up a 
few, but she's in the small van. By the way, darling, I'm glad 
this body wasn't found in your van. I don't think the police 
would appreciate it right now." 

"Yeah, so I heard. Lydia didn't like it too much either." 

"Let the group know that we're sending vans for them, and 
that there'll be no charge. We sure don't need to scare away 
paying customers. Two dead guys in two days isn't at all good 
for business." 

"Can't say it's done me any good either." 

Harley hung up and made sure the van's air conditioner 
was full blast to cool off the group, then went to assure 
Lydia's group, huddled close to the yellow crime scene tape, 
that they'd soon be returned to their hotel. 

"Your day is comped for your inconvenience," she added, 
"courtesy of Memphis Tour Tyme. Please wait for your ride to 
the hotel in the coffee shop, and we'll get you safely back." 

By the time she got back to Graceland for them, Charlsie 
had picked up those she could. The ones left behind had 
indulged in a few beers and were feeling fine. One of them, a 
rather chunky guy who was obviously feeling no pain, sat up 
front with her since there was no more room in the back. She 
didn't normally allow that, but this guy seemed genial 
enough, good-natured and not belligerent, and since there 
wasn't room for him in the back, she was out of options 
anyway. 

49



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"I shoulda known something was wrong with that guy," he 
said once the van was on the interstate headed for their 
hotel. "He acted kinda weird." 

"What guy? Oh, you mean the dead man? Most Elvis 
impersonators act a little weird." My father not excluded, she 
thought wryly. 

"Naw, it wasn't that. Didn't want to share his seat. Acted 
like he'd get robbed or hit in the head. Put up a little fuss until 
the other guy said something to him, and then he settled 
down all right." 

"Did you tell this to the police?" 

"No, didn't think about it. Maybe I should have, huh? Was 
the dead guy sick?" 

Harley thought for a moment. Apparently he didn't know 
that the dead Elvis had been stuck in the neck with a 
penknife. How had he been killed so quietly and without 
anyone noticing? It took a lot of nerve to do something like 
that in a bus full of tourists—nerve, or insanity. Or maybe a 
little bit of both. 

"So he knew the other guy?" she asked, and the tourist 
shrugged. "Couldn't tell. No one else knew him, but we didn't 
know either of them anyway." 

"Wait—weren't they part of your group?" 

"Never saw 'em before. Figured they were just along for 
the ride." 

Just like the extra guy had been along for the ride in her 
van. That was very interesting. 

"Can you give me a description?" she asked. 

"Black hair, long sideburns, white jumpsuit—" 

50



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"No, not the dead man, a description of the other guy." 

"I just told you. Black hair, long sideburns, white jumpsuit, 
and gold chains." 

"Both of them were Elvis impersonators?" 

"Yeah. Maybe that's how they knew each other." 

Sounded logical. 

"But what's weirder," he said in a bit of a slur, "is that only 
one of them was s'posed to be on the bus. If that twitchy 
gal's right, that is." 

"Twitchy?" 

"Yeah, the skinny little driver. She's kinda excitable." 

Good description for Lydia. 

"Did she say one of the Elvises wasn't supposed to be on 
there?" 

"Not exactly, but she kept reading over that list on her 
clipboard and doing a head count when we got to Graceland. 
Like it wasn't coming out right." 

"Where was the other Elvis?" 

"Don't know. He got off the bus with the rest of us—except 
for the guy that died—but there were a lot of other Elvises 
around there, so I guess he just joined up with them. Some 
kind of concert under a tent." 

After a moment, Harley said, "You really need to tell all 
this to the police." 

"Sure. If you think it's important. Can't see why though." 

"It's important." Let someone else tell him the guy had 
been murdered. It sure wasn't her job. 

Tootsie met her at the garage when she returned the van. 
He looked frazzled. His hair was all loose around his face and 

51



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

straggling out of the ponytail he kept it in for work, and his 
silk shirt was half out of his pleated-front pants. Not at all 
normal. He was always immaculate. 

"What's up?" she asked in concern, and he gave her an 
open-mouthed stare. 

"Two ... dead ... bodies. On our vans! When this gets out 
we'll have cancellations all over the place." He cupped a hand 
over his mouth, words coming out all muffled. "This is worse 
than being embezzled." 

"I'd think so. Although Sandler does look the type. It's 
always the quiet, snarky ones." 

"Not always. Believe me, it can be someone you least 
expect. Anyway, I'd settle for that right now instead of this. 
At least it wouldn't run off a lot of our clients." 

"Speaking of running off clients, you look pretty frightening 
at the moment." 

Tootsie went back to pacing, his Birkenstock sandals 
slapping against the concrete floor of the parking lot. "This is 
unbelievable. Unbelievable!" 

Harley looked at him. He seemed awfully upset for a mere 
employee. Could it be that he had a personal stake in the 
company? Like financial? She'd often wondered just how the 
ultraconservative Lester Penney had been induced to hire a 
man who painted his fingernails in the office and wore 
women's clothes after hours. For that matter, how had they 
even met? That could be a very interesting story. Now wasn't 
the time to ask, but one day... 

52



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"What can I do to help out?" she asked when he stopped 
pacing and leaned his forehead against the concrete wall with 
a big blue number two painted in the middle. 

With his head still resting against the wall, Tootsie cut his 
eyes at her. Silence stretched, and then he said, "I can't 
believe I'm even asking you, but could you help find out 
who's behind this? Quietly, and without publicity?" 

Harley blinked. "Wait—you're asking me to help?" 

"I know. I can't believe it either. But you do seem to have 
a knack for it." 

"I have a knack for getting hit in the head, crapped on by 
a goose, and whacked with a wooden penis. Although 
technically, I did most of the whacking with the last one." 

"As if I need a reminder of your newest hobby. Not 
wooden Johnsons. Dead bodies." He turned to lean back 
against the wall and briefly closed his eyes. "Jewel thieves, 
smugglers, now dead Elvises. Your career has taken quite a 
different turn." 

"Who'd have thought." 

"But somehow, and I have no idea how you manage it, it 
all ends up good." 

"For the police and aspirin corporations." 

He opened his eyes. "You didn't do too badly last time, if I 
remember correctly. Ten thousand dollars is a nice reward." 

"You're offering me money?" 

"No. But I'll keep you on the payroll even when you aren't 
doing tours." 

"Can you do that? What'll Mr. Penney say?" 

"Just let me worry about that. Think you can do it?" 

53 


Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Why not? It'll be a great distraction for me right now. I 
can't promise there won't be publicity, though," she warned. 
"There usually is." 

"As long as it's a Tour Tyme employee who solves the 
murders, that can only be good. Just be sure you help solve 
the murders and save the publicity until after it's over, okay?" 

"I'll do my best." 

54



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Four 

It was much too quiet in Harley's apartment. The Spragues 
next door didn't have their music up loud for a change. Maybe 
the honeymoon had worn off. Not that she was complaining. 
Right now, listening to rather vocal lovebirds would be like 
throwing a bucket of water to a drowning man, completely 
unwanted. 

Thoughts of Morgan had changed from regret to 
resignation. In some weird way, she understood his reasoning 
behind putting distance between them. For a guy in his 
position, this new habit she'd somehow acquired had to 
create career conflict. It'd be like her Aunt Darcy going to 
work for the Republican party, when everyone knew she'd 
rather give up all her Manolo Blahniks than vote anything but 
a Democratic ticket. 

Understanding and liking it were two entirely different 
things, though. Usually, she could see the end of a 
relationship well before it finally hit the skids. This one had 
blind-sided her. 

"Maybe you're so upset because he did it first," Cami said 
when Harley called her later to complain about Morgan. "You 
know how you've always been the one to walk out first." 

Camilla Watson had been her best friend since junior high 
and knew far too much about her past loves and crimes, just 
like Bobby. That could be inconvenient, but also helpful at 
times. This wasn't one of those times. She didn't want truth. 
She wanted sympathy and righteous indignation. 

55



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"That's not true," Harley said. "Remember Alex?" 

"How could I forget? And you still walked out on him first. 
Yes, you did, because you called me from Oxford to say you 
were moving out and needed a place to stay for a night." 

"Oh. Yeah. That was my third year of college. Stupid of me 
to quit college. Alex should have been the one to leave. One 
more day of living with him, and I'd have kicked his ass down 
the stairs. I guess I should have waited him out." 

"He called me for a year after that, you know, asking 
about you." 

Harley was surprised. "He did? I never knew that." 

"Yep. Couldn't get over the fact that you'd dumped him. It 
surprised me, too. I'd always thought Alex was the great love 
of your life." 

"So did I. Wonder why I left him? I can't even remember 
now." 

"Neither can I. Anyway, it proves my point that you're 
mostly upset because Morgan left first." 

She thought about that a moment. Then she said, "No, I 
think I really miss him. The jerk." 

"At the risk of sounding like Diva, if it's meant to be, he'll 
be back." 

"I'm glad you didn't quote that 'Let it go free and if it's 
meant to come back, it will' crap that annoys the hell out of 
me. I prefer the other version." 

"Which one is that?" 

"Let him go free and if he doesn't come back, hunt him 
down and shoot him." 

56



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Cami laughed. "I've heard people say that when you live 
long enough, you know you're better off with a cat anyway." 

Harley glanced over at Sam. He sat on the arm of a chair 
washing his family jewels. Or what he had left of them. 
"That's entirely possible. He's the only male in my life or bed 
right now." 

"So, other than your tawdry love life, how are things?" 

"I take it you haven't been watching the local news." 

"Oh God." 

"Why is that the reaction I usually get from you?" 

"Who died?" Cami asked with a sigh. 

"Elvis." 

"This may shock you, but rumor has it that he died in 
1977." 

"I've heard that. This Elvis, however, was stabbed in the 
back of my van yesterday. It was not a pretty sight." 

"Oh, I did hear that. It was your van? I should have 
known. Have you ever considered that you may be some kind 
of magnet for murder?" 

"Now see, that's just what I said to Morgan. I can't figure 
it out either. So today, when I was minding my own business, 
going right along with my usual tour guide stuff, another dead 
Elvis pops up." 

"Another one? Harley, they're going to put you under the 
jail." 

"It didn't happen in my van. It was in Lydia's tour bus. But 
here's the really strange thing—two Elvises were on that bus. 
Sitting together. One of them ends up dead, and one of them 
ends up gone. Ring any bells for you?" 

57



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Yes, warning bells. Stay away from this, Harley. 
Remember the other times you got mixed up in this kind of 
thing." 

"Here's the kicker—Tootsie asked me to investigate." 

When Cami didn't say anything, Harley waited a moment 
to allow the shock to sink in. Sam had curled up in her lap for 
a nap, and she stroked his soft fur with one hand. His body 
vibrated in a loud purr. 

Just as the silence on the other end of the line stretched a 
little bit too long, Cami asked, "Are you sure?" 

"Yep. Shocked me, too. I didn't know he had so much faith 
in me." 

Cami wasn't as pleased as she'd expected. Instead, she 
sounded horrified. "You do realize he was probably just being 
sarcastic?" 

"No, not at all. He was dead serious. Ha! I made a pun. 
Anyway, he said he'd cover any time I missed and still pay 
me, as long as I keep things as quiet as possible and find out 
who's killing people on our tour buses." 

"Harley, Bobby is going to freak out when he finds out 
you're involved. You know that." 

"You're not going to tell him, are you?" 

"Of course not." 

"Then he's not likely to find out. I'm going to be very low-
key. And since Morgan isn't around to rat me out, it ought to 
be a lot easier." 

"It won't work. You know it won't work. Something's going 
to happen, you'll end up in big trouble, and Bobby will have to 
arrest you. So don't do it." 

58



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"Take a deep breath and have some faith, Cami. 
Everything'll be just fine. Tootsie says I have a knack for 
this." 

"A knack for murder? There are nicer things to have, 
Harley. Like typhoid." 

"Unbeliever." 

After they hung up, Harley reflected on the two murders. 
They had to be related, but it had occurred to her that they 
had two slight differences. One Elvis had been killed by an 
unknown Elvis in a bus full of Elvises, while the other Elvis 
had been killed by an Elvis he knew. If it was the same killer, 
he—or maybe even she—adapted to the situation. But why 
pick on Elvis impersonators? There had to be a common 
thread. Had the two dead Elvises known each other? Were 
they all in the same competition? Business together? 
Neighbors? There could be any number of motives, but none 
of them jumped out at her. Since she had to start 
somewhere, it made sense to find the connection between 
murderer and victims and go from there. To do that, she had 
to start with the victims' connection to each other and work 
backward. 

Fortunately, she had experience in working backward. 

Tootsie was quite willing to do his computer magic and use 
his police connections to find out what he could about the 
victims. The first Elvis's real name was Derek Wade and he 
worked at the local Kellogg's plant in his other life. The 
second dead Elvis was a thirty-six year old man named Leroy 
Jenkins. One lived in Midtown, the other lived in North 
Memphis, and neither of them had any known connection to 

59



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

the other except that they were both contestants in the Elvis 
competitions. 

"Maybe if I talk to their families, I could find out if they 
knew one another," Harley said the next morning, and Tootsie 
nodded. He looked a little haggard, with bluish bruises under 
his eyes and a frown line between his brows. 

"Sounds good to me." 

"I'll need some kind of official sounding reason, though. 
You know, without being too obvious." 

"You're a Memphis Tour Tyme employee. You're there to 
offer condolences and ask if there's anything we can do. Of 
course, our insurance adjusters will handle any claims that 
may arise, so don't get sucked into discussing that. Especially 
admitting fault in any way. We have to be very careful about 
that, and let the lawyers and adjusters handle that kind of 
thing." Tootsie paused, and then said, "I'll print you out a few 
business cards with our logo and phone numbers so they'll 
feel more comfortable about allowing you to ask questions." 

"Good. I ran out of mine. Put my cell number on them, 
too, okay?" 

"Don't you think that's a waste of ink? It'll be broken by 
the end of the week anyway." 

"I haven't broken a one since I started clipping them to my 
belt loop. My record is now at nearly six weeks." 

Rolling his eyes, Tootsie said something about too little too 
late, but printed out the cards on the laser jet printer, and 
handed her the perforated sheet of thick paper. "Be careful, 
girlfriend," he said, and she nodded. 

60



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"I always am." She flashed him a bright smile meant to 
reassure him that the problem was in good hands, and then 
blew him a kiss on her way out the office door. She thought 
she heard him shout after her Don't do anything stupid! but 
could have been mistaken. She always tried to be careful. 

Armed with business cards, her cell phone, and a full tank 
of gas in her '91 silver Toyota, Harley set out for Midtown and 
the family of Derek Wade. He'd been forty-two, lived at home 
with his parents—which explained a lot—and worked as a 
raisin counter at the local Kellogg's. Apparently it paid well to 
count raisins. She wondered how they did it, one by one, or 
with a scoop like in the commercials, "two scoops" in every 
box. That was Kellogg's, wasn't it? It was hard to keep up 
with the battling cereal corporations' ads. 

And it was much harder than she'd imagined interviewing 
the grieving parents. She had to remind herself it was for a 
good cause, finding his killer, but she still found it difficult to 
deal with their pain. It put real faces to the victim's family, 
something she'd never had to deal with before. Statistics 
were cold. Grief was not. How did the police do it day after 
day? How did they deliver such terrible news after seeing 
broken and bloody bodies? No wonder so many officers 
retreated to emotional apathy while performing their jobs. It'd 
be suicide to empathize with all the victims and families they 
must encounter on a routine basis, and lessen their 
competency and effectiveness. 

The interview with the Wades yielded little information she 
didn't already know, and she considered avoiding her visit 
with the Jenkins family. But that wouldn't get the job done. 

61



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

So she steeled herself for another emotional hour and drove 
to the North Memphis address. It was in a shabby area of the 
city, the houses smaller and rundown, litter in many yards, 
not to mention the broken trees from the storm two years 
before. The media had dubbed it Hurricane Elvis, the straight-
line winds fierce enough to knock down old oaks and keep 
electricity off for weeks in many neighborhoods. Just a few 
streets over in the same part of Memphis, houses were 
compact but neat, with fenced yards and obvious pride in 
ownership. Houses here still had tree rubbish piled up. 

She parked at the curb in front of the house and checked 
the house number twice on her list. Could it be wrong? This 
couldn't be the house of the recently bereaved. The front door 
stood wide open, and laughter and music drifted out. Maybe 
they hadn't been notified yet. That thought made her queasy. 

While she sat there indecisively as the sun beat down 
ferociously on the windshield, one of the kids running in and 
out of the house hollered that another cop was sitting out 
front. Okay, she could at least figure out if they'd been told, 
and if they hadn't, make up some excuse and come back 
later. 

A woman came to the front door and leaned against the 
frame. Skinny, with dirty blond hair piled on top of her head 
like some kind of bizarre bird's nest, she squinted across the 
yard littered with broken toys and trash, a lit cigarette 
hanging from one corner of her mouth. 

"You the cops?" 

Harley got out of the car and approached the house. "No. 
Are you Mrs. Jenkins?" 

62



Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

"When it suits." She laughed at her own joke. "Who are 
you?" 

"Ms. Davidson. With Memphis Tour Tyme. I wonder if I 
could ask you a few questions." 

"This about Leroy? He's dead." 

So she knew. And apparently hid her grief well. 

"Yes," Harley said, "I know. Please let me offer my 
condolences and assure you that the company is cooperating 
fully with the police to find his murderer." 

"Yeah, yeah. So how much money are you offering?" 

Harley blinked. "Excuse me?" 

"Money. A settlement. You're with the insurance company, 
right?" 

"No, with the tour bus company. Your husband was on our 
bus." 

"In that stupid Elvis getup, I guess." She blew a stream of 
cigarette smoke in Harley's face and snorted. "Dumb bastard. 
Leroy never had a lick of sense anyway. Always off spending 
good money on shit like that instead of groceries. That's why 
I threw his ass out last year. Not good for nothin' around 
here." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "But he left me with his 
kids, so maybe I need to sue the tour bus company for letting 
that good-for-nothing idiot get killed." 

A little boy peeked at Harley from behind Mrs. Jenkins, big 
brown eyes wide and his hair hanging over his eyebrows. All 
he wore was a pair of ragged blue shorts. Behind him, bare 
floors were littered with empty cereal boxes and discarded 
clothes. Flies buzzed and a window air conditioner competed 

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with the heat. Home sweet home. It made Harley greatly 

appreciate her parents, for all their flaws. 

"Mr. Jenkins didn't live here? I was given this address—" 

"Just told you. Threw his ass out last year. Why are you 
here if not to offer money?" 

"I'm gathering any information that might assist the police 
in apprehending his killer. As I said—" 

"I don't care nothin' about that. He probably got what he 
deserved. All I'm interested in is how much money I'm gonna 
get to support his kids. It'll be the first time he's ever helped 
out, that's for damn sure." 

The little boy clinging to his mother made a sniffling 
sound, and Harley saw his lips quiver and his eyes fill with 
tears. That made her mad. 

"You know, Mrs. Jenkins, whatever your problems with 
your late husband, I'm sure his children loved him, so maybe 
we can discuss this in private." 

"Hell, his kids know what a rotten bastard he was, so no 
point in—" 

"Step outside and close the damn door," Harley snapped, 
"or I'll report to the insurance adjusters that you're 
uncooperative." She had no idea if she could do anything of 
the kind or if it'd matter anyway, but this troll of a woman 
obviously needed to be dealt with in language she'd 
understand. 

It must have worked, because she shoved the little boy 
back into the house and closed the door. Then she turned to 
look at Harley, arms crossed over her chest and her eyes 
narrowed. She had an expression like a thwarted weasel. 

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Well, that didn't matter, because Harley had experience with 
weasels, too, and she intended to get the information she 
needed. 

By the time she left, she'd learned that Leroy Jenkins had 
moved in with a roommate in Frayser, that he worked 
erratically as a mechanic at a repair shop on Watkins, and 
that he'd been attending Elvis competitions for five years. 
He'd been a favorite last year, making the finals. 

It wasn't much, but it was a start. As far as she'd learned, 
neither man knew each other, at least not well, but must 
have been acquainted with one another at the competitions. 
Maybe she needed to investigate the competitions next, how 
they were conducted, prizes offered, etcetera. 

Yogi should be able to help with that. 

* * * * 

"There's a Super Bowl competition for Elvis 
impersonators?" Harley had to keep from rolling her eyes, 
speaking loudly to be heard over the whine of Yogi's electric 
treadmill. 

"Yep," her father replied, puffing a little as he tried to keep 
up with the treadmill, "it's called an ETA Super Bowl and it's 
held in Memphis at the Images of the King competition. This 
year it's August eleventh through the sixteenth, right up until 
the candlelight vigil." 

"Why is it called ETA? Shouldn't that be EP something?" 

"Elvis Tribute Artists." Yogi missed a step and slid 
backward on the treadmill, barely catching himself before he 
fell. King watched intently from under the dining room table, 

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muscles quivering as if he intended to jump on it, too. Maybe 
that was a good idea, in light of the fact the dog was so high-
energy. 

Harley turned her attention back to her father. "So what 
does the winner get? A lifetime supply of fried peanut butter 
and banana sandwiches?" 

Yogi gave her a reproachful look. "There's a cash prize as 
well as the prestige of being the grand champion." 

Aha. Motive. "A big cash prize?" 

"It's not the cash prize that's the most important. If he 
wants, the grand champion gets a lot of gigs during the next 
year, and appears at the annual ceremonies the next year to 
present the trophy. It's a big honor. And I intend to win." 

"Just because you feel the money isn't important doesn't 
mean everyone does. Y'all hide your money in pickle jars 
instead of keeping it safely in a bank. You're just asking for 
trouble." 

Yogi stopped to look at her but the treadmill kept going. 
He fell forward, caught himself, then went backward, 
staggering as his arms pinwheeled. Harley tried to catch him 
but missed. He landed on his butt with a heavy "whoof!" The 
empty treadmill kept going, and King took advantage to jump 
on the moving black band. While the dog kept pace with the 
treadmill, Harley helped Yogi to his feet. 

"Are you all right?" she asked when she got him upright 
again. He looked dazed. His eyes were the bright green of a 
traffic light, and he kept blinking them. 

"I think so..." he finally got out, sounding breathless. 

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"You need to work on your dismount technique. You're 
supposed to turn the machine off first, and then stop walking. 
It's much easier that way." 

"Maybe so." 

"Well, at least you now know how to exercise King on rainy 
days. He thinks he's a race horse." 

Yogi sat down on a dining room chair and wiped his brow 
with a paper towel he pulled from his pocket. "King gets on it 
more than I do. He loves it. I hate it. But I don't want to 
insult Elvis's memory by being too fat or busting out of my 
jumpsuit. If I could lose enough weight, I'd wear the same 
black leather he wore at his comeback in sixty-eight." 

Harley sighed. It was beyond her comprehension. Not even 
in her days of intense worship of Steve Perry from Journey 
had she idolized a singer as much as her father worshiped 
Elvis. Of course, she recalled dressing up like Stevie Nicks 
once, layered dress and boots, long hair loose around her 
face, singing Stand Back while Cami used her parents' Super 
8 camera to film it. All traces of that humiliation had since 
been destroyed, she hoped. So maybe Yogi wasn't so alone in 
his rock star adulation after all. He'd just kept at it too long 
after adolescence. 

"I understand," Harley said to her father when they both 
knew she really didn't. 

He smiled. "Thanks." 

She smiled back at him. He really was a great father, even 
with this insanity he indulged in every year. And really, 
everybody had their quirks, didn't they? It just seemed that 
her family was a bit more blessed with them than most, or 

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maybe it was just that they didn't mind keeping them 
unapologetically out in the open. 

"So tell me what goes on at these competitions," she said. 
"Like how many contestants there are and who the judges 
are, that sort of thing." 

"It varies from year to year by how many contestants 
show up, but only twenty-four are in the finals." Yogi got up 
and turned off the treadmill. Sweet silence filled the dining 
room. King hopped off the treadmill when it stopped and went 
into the kitchen, presumably to get a drink of water. Yogi 
wasn't far behind him. "Sometimes the judges are other 
contestants from previous years, but occasionally we get a 
celebrity or two as judges." 

She followed him into the kitchen. As she'd suspected, 
King lay on the kitchen floor with his head in his water bowl. 
Just his ears and eyes showed above the deep bowl, 
reminding her of a flop-eared crocodile, and slurping sounds 
came from his vicinity. 

"Like who as celebrities?" 

"TV people, news columnists, those kind. Did you drink my 
root beer?" he asked with his head stuck inside the 
refrigerator. 

"You know I don't like that organic stuff Diva buys. Where 
is she, by the way? Burying the pickle jars?" 

Yogi shut the refrigerator and twisted open a bottle of 
peach flavored water. "I think she went to pick up some more 
supplies. We've got a big flea market coming up soon." 

Their main source of revenue. After inheriting his parents' 
house when Harley was only fourteen, they'd moved back to 

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Memphis from a California commune. Diva read tarot cards 
and sold crystal jewelry and dream catchers, and Yogi made 
metal garden trolls and windmills to sell at local flea markets. 
They made enough money to buy food and pay utilities and 
taxes, though Yogi always had to make his annual protest 
over the latter. Government conspiracy was a familiar theme. 
He'd never quite recovered from the mindset of the sixties. 
Not that Harley didn't sometimes agree with him, but she 
stopped short of picketing the Federal Building or protesting 
for animal rights outside the meat packing plants. More than 
once she'd had to provide her parents bail money and a ride 
home from the police station. 

Since Yogi chose to ignore her references to their banking 
system of pickle jars buried in the back yard, she gave up for 
now. It would come up again. She'd make sure of that. 

"So is that it? That's all the Elvis tributes are, just contests 
and a little prize money?" 

Yogi sighed. "After all these years, you'd think you'd have 
paid more attention." 

"You would, wouldn't you? It's not that I'm not interested 
in you. It's just that I've never been that interested in all the 
fuss made about Elvis every year. Sorry." 

Yogi looked sad. "There's never been another one like him, 
never will be. He created an era all on his own, a poor boy 
from Mississippi with only his talent and determination. Now 
he's known worldwide, and most of the rock music today is 
here only because of him. I don't mean that stuff your 
brother plays, that's just noise. A waste of talent." 

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"We certainly agree on that. And it's not that I don't 
admire Elvis, because how could I not? Every week I tell 
tourists about how he started out in a two room house in 
Tupelo before his talent got him to Graceland. And sometimes 
I tell them that because of my father, I've listened to Elvis's 
music all my life." 

That pleased Yogi. "You do?" 

"Sure. And sometimes I tell tourists about one of the times 
Diva met Elvis, and how he often got so lonely he'd walk 
down the highway from Graceland to visit with the night 
attendant at the Shell gas station. Almost everybody knows 
about how he had to rent amusement parks and movie 
theaters to be able to go out and not be mobbed by fans, but 
not many realize just how lonely he got at times." 

Yogi nodded. "There's a muffler shop at that Shell station 
now. My dad worked there a long time ago, when it was still a 
Shell station. He was a mechanic. The night attendant, Clyde, 
would tell him how he and Elvis talked sometimes, maybe 
shared a nip or two, and told dirty jokes. People forget that at 
heart Elvis was still a small-town boy from Tupelo stuck in a 
big-time world with too many boundaries. Talent made him, 
but it ruined him, too. Nobody ever thinks about how much 
he gave up sharing that talent." 

Now her father looked so sad Harley had to change the 
subject to cheer him up. "Hey, want to go to McDonald's while 
Diva isn't here?" 

That did the trick. As a closet carnivore living in a 
vegetarian household, the occasional cheeseburger or Big Mac 

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was a guilty pleasure for Yogi. No doubt Diva knew about his 
lapses, but chose not to make an issue of it. 

So Yogi, Harley, and despite her halfhearted protests, 
King, got into her car and drove to the McDonald's on 
Highland, only a few blocks away. She bought her father a Big 
Mac and King a cheeseburger, and herself a fried pie. All 
three of them were blissful with grease. 

"You know you're going to have to do extra jogging to 
work that off," she said to Yogi as they left the parking lot, 
and he nodded. 

"It's worth it. Got any breath mints? I don't want your 
mother to smell McDonald's on my breath." 

"For you, but King will have to wing it. You can always 
claim he got in the neighbor's garbage again. That's usually 
true anyway." 

"He's been doing much better. Except for yesterday, when 
he got in Sadie's flowerbeds. I have to replace two azalea 
bushes and some kind of orangey flowers. He was digging for 
moles. I told Sadie those humps in her lawn were mole trails, 
but she didn't listen." 

"How did he dig up two bushes? Those were pretty big." 

"Oh, he didn't dig those up, he ate them. Or chewed on 
them, anyway." 

Harley glanced in her rearview mirror. The culprit didn't 
look at all ashamed. He had his nose pressed against the 
back window as he surveyed the passing panorama of neat 
houses, the neighborhood head shop that sold bongs and 
other drug paraphernalia, a tattoo parlor, the St. Ann's 
Catholic school Harley had attended, and a music store. 

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Businesses and residents changed through the years, but 
some things always remained the same. 

"Well," Harley said, "Mrs. Shipley doesn't get mad about 
that sort of thing as long as you replace them. For a 
busybody and neighborhood gossip, she's really pretty nice." 

"She's been a good neighbor," Yogi agreed, and wiped his 
mouth with a napkin to scrub away any remaining traces of 
McDonald's as they got close to home. Eating meat was his 
biggest crime to date lately, and he and Diva hadn't been 
arrested for protests in a while. Maybe they were growing out 
of that stage at last. 

Really, as frustrating as they could be at times, Harley 
decided, she needed to stop complaining about her parents. 
She could have been stuck with a horror of a mother like that 
Patty Jenkins. No wonder Leroy left her. Too bad he didn't 
take the kids with him. 

"Hey," she said as an idea occurred to her, "when is your 
next Elvis-fest?" 

"A concert Friday night at Dad's Place on Brooks. Why?" 

"I thought I'd tag along if you don't mind." 

"Mind?" Yogi grinned so big his eyes looked like slits. "I'd 
love it. You can give me a few pointers, maybe. The big 
competition is way too soon and I want to be at my best." 

"I'll be there." It would give her an excellent chance to 
scope out the contestants and see which one of them might 
be a killer. 

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by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Five 

"Why are we here again?" Cami looked around the huge 
room filled with Elvises and noise. 

"To find a killer." 

Cami winced. "Arrest that guy over there. He's killing Don't 
Be Cruel." 

"I can't make an arrest, Cami. Even for murdering a song. 
The judges will have to do that. I just want to scope out these 
guys and see if any of them look familiar. The killer was on 
my van, so I should be able to spot him." 

"Wasn't he dressed as Elvis?" 

She sighed. "Yeah. That might make it a little more 
difficult." 

"I'll say. And anyway, even if you see the guy who killed 
the Elvis on your van, there's no guarantee he's the same guy 
who killed the Elvis on the other bus." 

"That may be true, but there's got to be a connection. Two 
dead Elvises in two days? Say, do you know if the plural of 
Elvis is Elvises, or Elvi?" 

Cami gave her a skeptical look. "You've really lost your 
mind, haven't you. I think it started back in May, but now 
you're past help." 

"We've already discussed this. My insanity began at 
puberty. I've just refined it." 

"Bobby's right. You're dangerous. I can't believe I let you 
talk me into coming here with you. Where's Yogi? And how 
soon do we get to leave?" 

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"Don't listen to anything Bobby says about me. Yogi and 
Diva are here somewhere. I said we'd meet them at the bar 
when it's over. Have I told you how good you look tonight? 
Your diet has really paid off." 

"Atkins was right. Low-carb works. I'm a size four, but I'd 
kill for a loaf of French bread or a box of Krispy Kremes. 
Maybe that's what set off the guy who's killing Elvises. A case 
of Diet Derangement." 

"No excuse. There aren't any carbs in gin or vodka." 

"Good point. I'm headed for the bar. You'll find me with a 
Diet 7-Up and Absolut." 

"Good thing I'm driving," Harley called as Cami walked 
away. She really did look great, but almost too skinny. That's 
what fooling around with a man did for women. Turned them 
into sticks or cat ladies. Harley wasn't sure which one she 
qualified for, probably both. Her jeans had gotten loose and 
now she slept with a cat every night. Things were not looking 
up. 

Not that she didn't look nice tonight. She'd worn a thin-
strapped top with a low neckline edged with a broad band of 
glittery embroidery, a new short, flared purple skirt, and 
sandals with heels. She almost never wore skirts, much less 
heels, but she had tonight. And she'd blown her hair dry 
instead of gelling it into spikes, so it feathered around her 
face in wispy strands. It was a disguise. Her own parents 
wouldn't recognize her. Cami's mouth had dropped open 
when she'd seen her. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"I forgot you could look like that," she'd exclaimed, and 
Harley had told her to shut up and never mention it again. 
Cami had just laughed. 

Harley got a Coke and wandered around the crowded 
room, peering at Elvises over the top of her glass, looking as 
nonchalant as possible. On the bandstand, different 
impersonators sang their hearts out, songs ranging from early 
Elvis to gospel. Some were really good, and some were 
ludicrous. Now she understood Yogi's determination not to 
mar the memory of his favorite performer. A really fat Elvis 
with a bad wig attempted to reenact one of the Las Vegas 
shows, but split his pants when he went down to one knee. Or 
maybe that was part of the impersonation. 

She knew it wasn't going to be as easy to recognize the 
guy from her van as she'd hoped. While dressed in different 
Elvis eras ranging from fifties to seventies, they all blended 
together, it seemed. Except for physical size, the faces were 
nearly indistinguishable, save for the black and Hispanic 
impersonators. This definitely wasn't going to be easy. Maybe 
not even possible. 

Leaning up against the wall, Harley watched the crowd. 
She didn't see Cami. Maybe she had run off with an Elvis or 
taken Harley's advice to find a one-night stand. The latter 
was not at all probable, and the first was impossible. Cami's 
musical preferences drifted more toward the David Lee Roth, 
Jon Bon Jovi type. But she hadn't been exposed as much to 
the eclectic music of Harley's childhood. 

The announcer at the mike said a familiar name that 
grabbed her attention, and Harley looked at the slightly raised 

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stage against the far wall as he introduced her father. Yogi 
came on stage with a flourish, swirling his white jeweled cape 
in over-the-top Elvis imitation. He belted out a favorite hit, 
His Latest Flame, that brought a round of applause and 
seemed to impress the crowd. It was the best she'd ever 
heard him sing. The applause verified it. 

Just as Yogi left the stage, someone grabbed her arm and 
said, "Don't blow my cover." 

She'd been taking a drink of her Coke, and barely kept 
from spilling it. She looked up angrily. Then she choked, 
spraying the Elvis with Coke. Coughing and spluttering, she 
suffered a few blows on the back before recovering enough to 
say, "Morgan? What the hell are you doing?" 

Dressed in black leather pants, his dark hair styled in Elvis 
of sixty-eight, he narrowed his eyes while he brushed 
recycled Coke from his black leather jacket. "What does it 
look like?" 

"You're an Elvis impersonator? Dear God—why didn't I 
know about this dark side of your personality?" 

"Let's go over here where we won't be overheard." 

Harley allowed him to guide her into the carpeted corridor 
outside the room, where she stood looking at him in the dim 
overhead lights. He even had a gold TCB necklace around his 
neck. Damn, for an Elvis impersonator, he really looked good. 

"I'm working a case," he said softly, "so don't blow my 
cover, okay?" 

"You mean gang-bangers and drug lords dress up like 
Elvis, too? Or are gunrunners smuggling weapons inside their 
jeweled capes and pink Cadillacs?" 

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by Virginia Brown 

Mike's mouth thinned. "Very funny." 

"No, what's funny is seeing you like this. Are you wearing 
make-up?" She couldn't help it. She had to laugh. And the 
more she laughed, the more he scowled, but she couldn't 
seem to control it. 

Mike leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms 
over his chest. "Believe me, it wasn't my idea. I didn't 
volunteer, that's for sure." 

Finally able to talk without giggling, Harley wiped her eyes. 
"I believe you. I can't imagine what kind of case you'd be 
working that would require dressing as Elvis, but—" 

She stopped. He looked at her and she looked at him. 
Even though she knew he'd never admit it, she said, "You're 
working the dead Elvises case, aren't you. The police know 
the killer is another Elvis or someone connected to these 
competitions, don't they? I knew I was on the right track." 

"And just what the hell do you mean by that? Harley, if 
you're messing around in that case—" 

"I never said I was." Instant irritation set in. "Yogi is 
performing tonight, remember? I've got as much right to be 
here as anyone else. I just figured it had to involve an Elvis 
impersonator after the last murder, that's all." 

Morgan didn't look trustful, but after a moment he nodded. 
"All right. Just don't you get involved. Whoever the murderer 
is, he's bold enough to kill in plain sight of two dozen tourists. 
I don't think he'd hesitate to kill anyone else who got in his 
way." 

"Well, I don't have to worry about that since I don't intend 
to get in his way." That much was certainly true. She 

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intended to pass along any information she learned to Tootsie 
and let him pass it on to his roommate, Steve the cop. Any 
credit for identifying the killer would only be made public after 
the police had made an arrest. While the most important 
thing was catching the killer, Tootsie hoped good publicity 
lessened any negative press generated by the murders on 
Memphis Tour Tyme buses. And it wouldn't hurt Harley, 
either. She'd love to prove Bobby wrong, as well as Morgan. 
She wasn't always a screw-up. 

"I hope not," Mike was saying, "'cause your luck may not 
hold out." 

"And here I thought it was more than luck that kept me 
alive." 

"Right, but there won't always be someone around to 
rescue you." 

"Rescue me?" She put her hands on her hips and glared at 
him. "I don't recall anyone around in that warehouse, or 
showing up before I got away from that last maniac who 
intended to kill me." 

"We seem to remember things differently. I showed up at 
the warehouse, and again right in the middle of the shooting 
last time." 

"Yeah, but I'd already escaped. Mostly." He just looked at 
her and she felt a little guilty. "Okay, I concede that part. But 
I probably would have gotten away both times." 

"Guess we'll never know." 

"Guess not." An awkward silence fell between them. Then 
he looked toward the door as the announcer's voice came 

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over the speakers. "They're calling my name. Got to go do my 

stuff." 

"You're actually going to sing? Good God. Can you sing?" 

"I do all right." 

"I've got to hang around to see this." 

"Don't stay on my account. Feel free to leave." 

"No way in hell. I'd give a week's pay for this 
entertainment." 

Morgan groaned. "I'd give a month's pay to get out of it." 

"And yet here you are." 

"Here I am. Do me a favor. Go away." 

"Sing to me, Elvis baby. I'll be the blonde at the bar." 

"In the short purple skirt." He looked her up and down, 
and something in his gaze made her stomach flip. He still had 
a powerful effect on her libido. Damn him. 

It seemed forever but could only have been a few seconds 
before the announcer's voice came over the speakers again, 
his words incomprehensible over the roar in her ears as her 
blood surged like ocean surf. She could almost smell the 
seaweed, see the moonlight, feel Morgan's hands... 

"Later," Morgan said, snapping her out of her brief trance, 
and she blinked as he turned and walked away. 

Why did she have to run into him again? She'd been doing 
all right. Now she had to wait a minute for the blood that had 
rushed from her head to work its way back up before she 
tried to walk. By the time she got back inside Morgan was 
performing his rendition of Suspicious Minds. He would. It 
was her favorite Elvis song. The rat. 

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He gathered more than a few interested looks from the 
women in the crowd, swiveling his hips in a pretty good Elvis 
imitation, the tight black leather pants leaving little to the 
imagination and sparking more than a few memories. Why did 
they have the heat on in this place? She fanned her face with 
a bar napkin and tried to think of something else. 

Cami found her leaning against the bar. "That guy onstage 
right now looks pretty familiar to me, Harley. How do I know 
him?" 

Without taking her eyes from the stage, Harley said, "He's 
Morgan's twin brother." 

Cami squinted at the stage. "Really? I didn't know he had 
a twin." 

"He doesn't." 

Cami set her drink down on the bar, but missed. Ice and 
vodka spilled across the counter and onto Harley's arm. 
"Damn. Sorry about that. I missed the bar. Why doesn't he 
have a twin?" 

"You'd have to ask his parents. I'm not going to have to 
carry you out to the car, am I?" 

Considering that, Cami said, as the last lyrics faded into a 
riff of guitar chords, "I don't think so. I've only had three 
drinks. I'm still functioning." 

Harley turned to look at her while Morgan left the stage. 
"Just not so well, it seems." 

Cami smiled sloppily. "I'm fine." 

"Uh huh. Here come Yogi and Diva. Straighten up, and 
we'll leave soon." 

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Yogi was smiling broadly. "Did you hear the applause? 
They loved me!" 

"I'd have been shocked if they hadn't. You were great." 

"Got any pointers for me?" 

"Yes, a little less melodrama with the cape. Other than 
that, don't change a thing." 

Yogi nodded happily. Diva smiled serenely. Harley sighed 
enviously. It'd be nice to live in their world. 

Her world currently required that she get her drunken 
friend to the car, however. Of course, they'd had to park in 
the very back of the crowded lot. I-55 and a chain link fence 
edged the parking area, and she tried to remember just 
where she'd left her Toyota. Headlights of passing cars on the 
interstate and overhead vapor lights provided enough 
illumination for her to walk Cami across the asphalt without 
falling into a pothole, though she wasn't navigating much 
better than her friend. Stupid of her to wear sandals with 
heels. Not used to them, she wobbled like a drunken sailor. 

It took luck and skill, but she managed to get the 
passenger side door open and Cami safely wedged inside 
without too much damage to either of them. Humidity and 
effort took its toll, however. This year summer had swung 
between steaming heat and monsoons. She wasn't sure which 
was worse. At least it wasn't as hot as previous years, though 
tourists unfamiliar with southern summers found that hard to 
believe. 

Leaning back against the side of the car to catch her 
breath, Harley happened to look over when a vehicle stopped 
in the aisle between cars. An Elvis impersonator opened the 

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back door to the taxi, and when he straightened up and 
looked in her direction, something about him struck her as 
very familiar. It wasn't until the taxi had pulled away to go 
out the exit that it hit her—the missing Elvis killer! 

"Hey, wait a minute," she shouted, and started running 
after the taxi, but it'd gone around the far end of parked cars 
by then. She kicked off her heels to run faster and try to 
catch the taxi driver's attention, but that didn't help. As it 
passed under a vapor light, she saw the Elvis looking back at 
her. 

* * * * 

Harley spent the better part of the next morning at the 
Memphis Tour Tyme office tracking down the taxi and driver 
that had made a pickup at Dad's Place around ten. How did 
the police do it? No wonder it took them so long to solve 
cases, when they had to follow so many leads that ended in 
dead-ends before they got lucky. 

"Where are you going?" Tootsie asked as she stuck the 
paper with the name and address into her backpack. "And 
leave your cell phone on. Just in case." 

"Just in case what? Never mind. Stupid question. I'm 
following up a lead, talking to the taxi driver who picked up 
the missing Elvis last night to see if I can get an address 
where he took him. With any luck, he took him home and we 
can get a name as well." 

"That wouldn't be luck, baby, that'd be a miracle. If the 
guy recognized you running after him, he's probably smart 

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by Virginia Brown 

enough not to go straight home. Not with that taxi driver, 
anyway." 

Harley sighed. "I know. I wasn't thinking. I was just so 
surprised to see him after I'd looked all night, watching all 
those Elvis guys onstage—and some of them are really bad— 
that when I recognized him as the Elvis killer on my van, I 
just took off. And let me tell you, it's not a good thing to run 
in parking lots in your bare feet. I'll have bruises for a week." 

She'd already told Tootsie about Morgan, and knowing he'd 
never endanger an undercover cop, it was important for him 
to know that the police were obviously following in the same 
direction in their investigation. They'd gotten on it pretty fast, 
sending in an undercover guy. Of course, there'd be a lot of 
pressure from the Convention and Visitors Bureau, as well as 
the city officials, who'd want any hint of danger for tourists to 
be quickly squelched. That'd be a lot of dollars to lose in a 
month-long Elvis celebration. 

Tootsie leaned back in his chair. He was once more his 
impeccable self, well-groomed and his shoulder-length auburn 
hair tied in a ponytail at his nape. The lines around his mouth 
had eased, but he still had bags under his eyes that told her 
he hadn't stopped worrying. He smiled slightly. 

"I don't even want to know why you weren't wearing 
shoes. And remember, don't try to talk to this guy on your 
own. All you have to do is—" 

"I know. Get you the information. You'll take it from 
there." 

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"Right. Whatever the reason this guy is taking out Elvis 
impersonators, I don't want him doing it on our buses. It's 
not good for business." 

"Not good for the Elvises either." 

"No," he agreed. "It's not. The thing is, we aren't really 
sure it's about Elvis impersonators anyway. It could just be a 
guy with a grudge against the victims for some other reason. 
Maybe they had a disagreement, lover's spat, a difference of 
opinion over politics, religion, women, whatever. The police 
are checking out all those leads, but you're the one who can 
possibly identify the killer." 

"So can Lydia, if we can get her to be coherent. I don't 
think the police were able to get much from her that made 
sense. Anyway, I could be remembering the wrong guy, you 
know. Maybe it's just one of the other passengers that had 
absolutely nothing to do with it." 

Tootsie nodded. "The process of elimination will determine 
that. Meanwhile, see if you think this guy's a likely suspect, 
and if you find out his name, I'll turn it over to Steve. I guess 
you've already given a description of him to the police?" 

"As much as I could. I mean, he looked like Elvis. I gave 
his height, approximate weight, and all that, but I couldn't 
remember any distinguishing features for the police artist. All 
I can say is that he had a different walk. Yeah, I know, that 
sounds stupid, but it was something about the way he moves. 
Really, it's the perfect disguise, hiding as Elvis in a bunch of 
Elvis impersonators. I mean, they may dress a little 
differently, in white jumpsuits, or in baggy suits of the fifties, 

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or in black leather, but they're all so similar it's hard to 
pinpoint any big differences between them." 

Except for really sexy undercover cops in tight black 
leather, she thought before she could stop herself. She had to 
quit doing that. It got very distracting. 

"Gotta go," she said then, and heaved her backpack over 
one shoulder. "Wish me luck." 

"Good luck, I presume." 

"What else?" 

She found the taxi driver in line at The Peabody Hotel. 
Taxis waited in an area by the parking lot off Second Street, 
while valets scuttled out to open car doors and usher in 
guests. On Union Avenue, horse-drawn carriages waited for 
tourists. There'd been a lot of discussion about the horses 
being allowed to wait or even pass by restaurants. Something 
about manure and diners. Harley had her own opinion about 
that—City Hall spread around enough manure that a few 
more piles here and there in the streets shouldn't matter in 
the least. After all, the horses wore diapers, but politicians 
weren't required to wear muzzles. The horses won out, but 
the politicians were still there. Unfortunately. 

So far, no law had been passed about the politicians. 

After finding an empty parking spot just outside the 
employee door opening onto Third Street, she stuck a few 
coins in the meter and cut through the alley. The taxi was still 
in the same spot, his ID number on the light atop the roof. 
The driver sat inside, a craggy-faced man wearing a Memphis 
Redbirds baseball cap. 

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"Hey," she said, stepping up to his open window. He 
looked up from his newspaper to squint at her, "mind if I ask 
you a few questions?" 

"You want a ride somewhere?" 

"No, I'd just like to ask you about a fare you picked up at 
Dad's Place—" 

Rattling his paper, he looked back down at it. "I ain't no 
information booth. Be glad to take you anywhere you want to 
go, that's it." 

"This won't take but a minute, I just want to know—" 

"Lady, I done told you. Want information, ask at the front 
desk of any hotel. Want a trip to the airport or wherever, hop 
in back." 

"Fine. Give me a ride to the Orpheum." 

"That's only two blocks away. Walk or take the trolley." 

Harley got irritated. "Your customer service attitude sucks. 
Do your supervisors know what a jackass you are to paying 
fares?" 

Now he looked up at her with a scowl, chewing on the unlit 
cigar in his mouth. "Ain't got no supervisors, just dispatch. I 
own this cab. I take the fares I want, and I don't like short 
hauls." 

"Okay, round-trip to West Memphis then. Or isn't that far 
enough away?" 

"Depends. Where in West Memphis?" 

"Oh, for the love of—" She paused to remind herself that 
she needed the information, so counted mentally to ten, then 
said in the sweetest voice she could muster, "Southland 
Greyhound Park, please." 

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He folded his paper and slung it to the frayed leather seat 
beside him. "Get in. I got the meter running." 

Before she had the door closed, he'd started off, the taxi 
jerking forward. Second Street was a one-way street so he 
headed south, then turned toward Riverside Drive. Probably 
going to take I-240 west across the new bridge to Arkansas. 
West Memphis was a collection of truck stops, restaurants, 
and motels that catered to truckers, the greyhound race 
track, and all the businesses and homes that formed an easy, 
laid-back small town. Just across the bridge, residents 
enjoyed the slower pace, with the conveniences—or 
annoyances—of Memphis a short ride east over the Mississippi 
River. 

"So," Harley said, sliding open the little Plexiglas window 
that made a barrier between the front and back seat, "where 
did you take the fare you picked up last night on Brooks 
Road? A hotel? A residence?" 

"I pick up lots of fares during the day. How should I know 
where I took one?" 

"Because you keep a log, as required by law. It was 
around ten. The guy was dressed like Elvis. You can't get too 
many of those." 

"You'd be surprised this time of year." 

"Probably not, but that isn't important. I just want to know 
where you took him, what he might have said, and a 
description." 

The driver glanced in his rearview mirror. "You a cop?" 

"No. Just an interested party." 

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"Look, Blondie, I ain't getting mixed up in some messy 
divorce." 

"No, you look, Mr.—" A quick glance at his registration card 
provided his name, "Todd, it doesn't matter to me in the least 
what you're interested in. These are not hard questions. It 
won't take much effort or time to answer me, so give it a try." 

From her position on the back seat she had an excellent 
view, and she saw his cigar stub go up and down vigorously 
for a moment. "Is there a tip in it for me?" 

"Extortionist," she muttered under her breath, but he must 
have heard her. 

He shrugged. "Ain't extortion if you want answers, little 
lady." 

"You're right. Pretty please?" 

"Ask me the questions again, and if I know the answers I 
might tell you." 

"Where'd you take the Elvis you picked up last night on 
Brooks Road, and did he say anything unusual?" 

"Took him to the corner of Poplar and Highland, dropped 
him off in front of the pancake place." 

"You mean Perkins Restaurant?" 

"That's the one." 

That was only a block from Memphis Tour Tyme's main 
office. Coincidence? Maybe. And maybe not. 

"What'd he look like?" 

"Elvis." 

"Right, but I'm sure you can do better." 

"I just give 'em a ride, I don't look at 'em." 

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Harley thought about Tootsie's use of Southern charm to 
deal with clients, and decided to try it. Couldn't hurt, and it 
might even help. She put on a big smile. 

"Now I don't believe that. You seem like an observant kind 
of man, someone who knows what's going on even when 
others don't. I bet you know a lot more than you let on." 

He glanced at her again in the rearview mirror. "Maybe. 
Maybe not." 

"Sure you do. You could probably give me his shoe size." 

"Well ... guess I did notice a few things. About six feet, I'd 
say, maybe a hundred seventy-five pounds. Kinda long face, 
short straight nose. Full lips, white teeth, but the kinda white 
that's bright like paint, y'know? I'd say he might be thirty or 
so." 

"Did he say anything in particular? Anything that might 
have been odd, or unusual?" 

"Kept kinda quiet, just said to let him out at Poplar and 
Highland." 

That was disappointing. She sat back in the seat and tried 
to think if there was anything else she should ask, something 
that would set this guy apart from everyone else. But she 
drew a blank. Damn. 

Instead of going straight and taking the exit to Arkansas, 
Mr. Todd took a right on Poplar to pass by the jail and 
courthouses, then took another right on Jefferson, going 
toward the river again. 

"I know how to get to West Memphis," she said, "so let's 
not take the long route." 

"Do you really want to go to the dog track?" 

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"No." 

"Then how about I take you back where you found me and 
you just give me a really nice tip, Blondie." 

"Works for me." 

The taxi bumped over the trolley tracks and turned left on 
Riverside Drive. Barges passed by on the river, skirting Mud 
Island, an inelegant name for a spit of mud and sand that 
now had half-million dollar homes built on it. The hot summer 
sun shimmered on the Mississippi that looked deceptively 
calm. Undercurrents could take a foolish swimmer down in 
seconds. Sometimes she felt like she was swimming against 
river currents. 

When they got back to Second and Union, Harley gave him 
a twenty dollar bill and opened the back door to get out. He 
stopped her. 

"Hey, Blondie, that guy did say something a little weird." 

"He did? What?" 

"Asked me if I'd ever wanted something so bad I'd do 
anything to get it." 

"What'd you say?" 

The cigar switched to the other side of his mouth as he 
shrugged. "Just said I already had everything I wanted." 

"Then you, Mr. Todd, are a lucky man." 

He grinned. "That's just what he said." 

Great. Now she was thinking like a killer. Or possible killer. 
She had no real evidence he was the same man who'd killed 
the first Elvis, and wasn't at all sure he was involved in the 
death of the second Elvis. It just seemed likely. 

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When she got back to her car, a parking ticket was stuck 
under the windshield wipers. It fluttered in the hot breeze as 
if mocking her. Dammit, she'd stuck money in the meter. How 
could it be out already? City Hall was going to hear about 
this, by God, because this was one ticket she didn't deserve, 
especially after paying those tickets she'd gotten back in May. 
Oh no, they weren't going to get away with this. She looked 
up to see a man standing at the meter by her car, shoving 
coins into the slot. 

"Hey, that's nice of you to pay for my parking, but I've 
already gotten a ticket." 

He looked over at her. "I'm not paying for your parking. 
This is my meter." 

"Your meter?" 

"Yeah, looks like you parked in the loading zone." 

"Oh." Grabbing her ticket, she unlocked her car and stuffed 
it into the glove compartment next to one she'd gotten the 
week before. Half her salary these days seemed to go to 
unnecessary parking fines, and the other half to buy new cell 
phones. Keen observation didn't appear to be one of her 
strong points. 

She sat for a moment with her hands on the wheel, letting 
the air conditioning cool off the interior. Maybe she was 
wrong. Maybe the guy she'd seen last night wasn't the same 
guy who'd been on her van. Obviously, she wasn't that great 
an eyewitness. Bobby had told her about some studies they'd 
done to test eyewitnesses, and how almost every one of them 
had missed vital evidence in a mock crime. Conflicting stories 
had veered from totally fictional to pretty close. No one had 

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given a perfect version of what had really happened. There 
was every possibility she was on the totally wrong track. It 
could have been any of the passengers who'd killed the 
Elvises, with the guilty party glibly laying the blame 
elsewhere. 

Still, what had been said to the taxi driver was pretty odd, 
any way she looked at it. 

Just as she put the Toyota into first gear and pulled out 
into traffic, her cell phone rang. Law of probabilities at work 
again. Go to the restroom in a restaurant, and your food 
would come while you were gone. Finally find an interesting 
article in a five year old magazine, and you'd be called back 
into the doctor's office. Go to shift gears in a five-speed, and 
your cell phone would ring. Never failed. 

A car horn blared behind her, and when she looked back 
the driver was gesturing wildly for her to get out of the way. 
She had to go forward, so she drove down the street until she 
reached a church, then pulled into the parking lot. If she tried 
to juggle phone and gears with the traffic, she was bound to 
screw up one of them. 

Tootsie said, "Have I got you or the answering service?" 

"Which one sounds sexier?" 

"The computer voice, darling. Where are you?" 

Harley squinted out the windshield. "The church on Third 
by the interstate." 

"It must be fate. Go in and have some prayers said for 
your soul." 

"What? Why?" 

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"Bobby Baroni just called here looking for you. He doesn't 
sound like his usual jovial self. Or maybe he does and that's 
the problem." 

"What could he be mad about?" 

"Didn't you say you ran into our favorite undercover cop 
last night?" 

"No. He wouldn't tell on me. That rat!" 

"I'm not saying he did or didn't. You better talk to Baroni 
before you go jumping to any conclusions. Just wanted to 
give you a heads up. He'll probably be calling you soon." 

"Right now the only thing I feel like jumping is Mike 
Morgan's ass. With a two by four!" 

"It must be love," Tootsie said sweetly, then laughed and 
hung up when she gave her opinion of his comment in two 
short, pithy words. 

Fuming, Harley sat there for a moment, cell phone in hand 
and the air conditioning doing nothing to cool her off. How 
dare he tell Bobby she was investigating the Elvis murders! 
And how had he known? She hadn't given him any reason to 
think that. Her appearance at the Elvis contest was perfectly 
reasonable since Yogi was a performer. Not only that, but 
Mike had asked her not to rat him out. Then he went and 
ratted her out! Oh, there would be vengeance involved. And it 
was best served cold. 

Bobby called as she was turning into the lot behind the 
two-story buff brick building that housed the offices of 
Memphis Tour Tyme. She looked at her cell phone. Might as 
well get it over with. 

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"What's new, Detective?" she asked as cheerfully as she 
could manage. 

"I was going to ask you that." Bobby did not sound 
cheerful. He sounded mad. "What's this I hear about you 
visiting the families of the victims? Mrs. Jenkins was really 
upset." 

Oh. Maybe Morgan hadn't been the one to rat on her. 
She'd reserve judgment on the vengeance thing. And 
fortunately, she'd had enough time to think of a reasonable 
response to likely questions. 

"As a Memphis Tour Tyme representative, we wanted to 
extend our deepest sympathies to the families in their time of 
bereavement," she said primly. 

A moment of silence was followed with, "When did you 
start talking like a Hallmark card?" 

"Right after I found a dead Elvis in the back of my tour 
van." 

"Well stop it. You didn't go out there to console anyone. 
Admit it. You're messing around in our investigation again." 

"Bobby, you wound me." 

"Don't give me any ideas. Look, we've been friends a long 
time, but you know I can't let you go around getting in the 
way and possibly contaminating evidence or interfering with a 
witness, not to mention an ongoing investigation. To you, this 
is just one big game, but to the police, it's serious business. 
You're going to end up in trouble. Big trouble. You've been 
damn lucky so far, but that's bound to run out. Then you'll 
put officers in the position of endangering themselves and 

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others to protect you. It's not right, Harley, and besides that, 
it's illegal." 

Guilt replaced indignation. He had a point. She stared out 
the windshield of her car at the hedgerow that provided a 
barrier between the parking lot and the next yard, and 
thought that maybe the days of her amateur sleuthing should 
end. 

"Okay," she said, "even if someone is murdered in front of 
me, I'll stay out of it. I'll just be Harley Jean Davidson, tour 
guide extraordinaire. That make you happy?" 

"Delirious with joy. Do I have your word on that?" 

She hesitated. Anything could happen. Breaking her word 
to a friend was serious stuff. If something beyond her control 
happened, it'd hurt their friendship. She'd rather make him 
mad now than risk irreparable damage later. 

"No. Look, Bobby, I don't intend to get in trouble. I 
promised Tootsie I'd help out all I could, but I'll tell you 
everything I've found out and you do with it what's 
necessary. Of course, the way things have been happening 
around and to me lately, I can't promise I won't get involved 
at all. The best I can do is say I'll do my best to stay out of 
police business." 

After a short silence, Bobby said, "If you weren't my 
friend, you'd probably have already faced charges. Next time 
you obstruct or interfere in a police investigation, you'll be 
treated like any other Memphis citizen. You'll be arrested." 

Gulp. 

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by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Six 

"So what did you say when he said that?" Tootsie's 
expression was part fascination, part concern. Harley sat in 
the office chair across from him, bare legs crossed, swinging 
one foot and debating her future. 

"I just said 'Fine' and then told him what I'd found out. We 
hung up, but it wasn't on the best of terms." 

"I'm sorry, baby. This is my fault." 

"How is it your fault? You're not the one committing 
murders. The only thing you've killed lately is a little time 
listening to me whine. I'm done now. You can go back to 
work." She stared glumly at the chewed tips of her fingers. 
Not a nail left. They'd been growing out pretty well before all 
this happened. Now it looked like rats had been gnawing at 
her hands. 

Tootsie sighed. "I shouldn't have asked you to investigate 
for me. If I hadn't been so desperate, I'd have known better." 

"Desperation seems to be contagious lately." 

"Look, let the police handle it. Don't risk more trouble. It's 
not worth it." 

Harley looked at him. "Then I guess those bags under your 
eyes are the newest fashion? It's worth it, girlfriend. If for no 
other reason, so you won't keep looking like a reject from a 
Salvation Army sale." 

Tootsie's gasp of horror as he put a hand to his mouth 
made her immediately feel guilty. His eyes got big, and his 
lips quivered. "Salvation Army?" he echoed in a high voice. 

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"No, no, not really," she said hastily, "I used the wrong 
words. You just don't look like your usual snazzy self, that's 
all. It's nothing a good night's sleep and peace of mind 
wouldn't fix quick enough. I swear it." She got up to put an 
arm around him, patting his shoulder to soothe his ruffled 
nerves. 

He put his face in his palms. His voice was muffled. "I can't 
sleep. All I can think about are those dead men and some 
vicious beast running amok on our vans. It's not just business 
I'm worried about, it's the danger to our clients. Is it just our 
company that's the target? Why is it happening only to us?" 

The last came out in a kind of wail, and Harley didn't know 
quite how to react. This was a Tootsie she wasn't used to 
seeing. She kept patting his shoulders, covered by a wrinkled 
blue silk shirt. This was so unlike him and indicative of his 
distress. 

"I don't know," she said finally, "but I intend to find out. 
Maybe it's just coincidence it's always Tour Tyme vans, or 
maybe there's a reason for it. Look, I know the police are a 
lot better than I am at doing this kind of thing, but I can talk 
to people who might not talk so freely to the cops. If it's okay 
with you, I'll keep on asking questions and digging around. All 
right?" 

"You'd do that?" Tootsie looked up at her, spreading his 
fingers across his face to stretch away the weariness and 
doubts. "And you'll be careful?" 

"You bet. So don't keep stressing about it. The MPD is one 
of the best in the country at tracking down criminals, and 
hey—they've got me to help." 

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"Oh God." Tootsie laughed a little shakily. "Don't tell them 
that. I have a feeling it wouldn't be in your best interest." 

"And I have a feeling you're right. Now here." Harley dug 
in her backpack and pulled out a new tube of lipstick. "Estée 
Lauder. I was saving it for a special occasion, and I think this 
qualifies." 

Tootsie opened the box and pulled out the tube. "Ooh, 
scarlet red! You sure you don't want this?" 

"It's not my color. Actually, I got it for you anyway. Free 
with my purchase of mascara. It's you. Really." 

The phone console lit up with a call, and saved her from 
any further lying. Happier now, Tootsie answered the phone 
with his Memphis Tour Tyme spiel and took down a message. 
As another call came in, he handed it to Harley. "Put this on 
Rhett's desk for me, will you? He should be back soon." 

"Ah, the charming Retch Sandler. Has he found his missing 
personality yet?" 

"Still missing. But he's a good accountant and hasn't stolen 
anything yet, so don't make him mad, okay?" 

"I'll do my best. As long as he still hands out the 
paychecks, anyway." 

Harley went down the hall and put the pink message slip in 
the middle of Rhett's desk, on top of a neatly stacked set of 
ledgers that sat atop a spotless desk, in a small office that 
was more like a hospital room than most hospital rooms. 
Sanitary, hygienic, and sparse. Just like Rhett. No personal 
photos, no sports souvenirs, no plants. Just stacks of ledgers 
and a computer. It looked a lot newer than the one Tootsie 
had at his desk. Sandler had a new computer to use in his 

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work, while Tootsie still used an older computer. It was most 
likely a thorn in Tootsie's side that he didn't have a new one 
at the office, but he did have a state-of-the-art computer at 
home. 

Sandler's computer hummed, the monitor still on. Curiosity 
killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back, Harley said to 
herself, and took a peek at the screen. Accounting had never 
been her forté. Even though she'd worked for the bank, it had 
been in the marketing department, where creativity counted a 
lot more than spread sheets. They'd been about to outsource 
all the marketing when she'd decided she couldn't stand 
another minute of her bosses, and a transfer to one of the 
branches was her idea of hell. Thus began her sojourn into 
the world of tourism. 

And murder. Who would have thought it? 

Now she reflected that she should have paid more 
attention to the accounting class she'd taken at Ole Miss, 
because all this looked like hieroglyphics to her. A few things 
stood out, not the numbers but the initials. LOP. TAR. What 
on earth were those for? Tar she could figure out, probably 
something to do with repaving the parking lot, but LOP? What 
was a lop and why did it cost so much? 

Footsteps slogged down the hallway, and she headed for 
his office door. Sandler met her in the hall, his eyes 
narrowing a little when he saw her come out of his office. He 
was the kind of man you'd never really notice, ordinary, with 
sandy hair he kept short, slight build, and regular features. 
He always wore a suit, black in the winter, tan in the summer, 
and bow ties that still didn't hide his prominent Adam's apple. 

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Black glasses with thick lenses balanced on the bridge of his 
quite ordinary nose. His only distinguishing feature was a 
mustache that he clipped short and curved, so that when he 
talked it looked like a brown caterpillar riding his upper lip. 

"May I help you?" He spoke in a nasal monotone, like the 
guy on TV who did the commercials for eye drops. 

"Just leaving a message on your desk. That's all." She 
gave him a bright smile and a little wave of her fingers as she 
passed by, certain he suspected of her snooping. She didn't 
mind. She had been snooping, so it seemed fair. 

Tootsie was on another call, speaking persuasively into the 
headset he wore over his right ear. It was a skinny piece of 
plastic that curved around to his mouth, and every so often 
he'd reach up to adjust it, like the person on the other end 
just wasn't understanding him. 

"Yes, I know," he said calmly, "but the police are working 
on it. There's no indication this is anything other than sheer 
coincidence, perhaps a personal grudge between two of the—I 
see. Of course, I understand that this is just business, but 
with it so close to the anniversary date, I think you'll find it 
quite difficult to book—you have? I agree your first 
responsibility is to your clients, but Memphis Tour Tyme has 
an impeccable record of service and reliability. This is just an 
aberration—I understand. Certainly. Perhaps next year." 

He pushed a button and sat for a moment with his 
shoulders hunched, then looked up at her. "Fifth cancellation 
in two days. Not just the hotel groups we get, but agencies 
that book well in advance." Slowly, he bent forward until his 

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forehead rested against the desk surface. "We're ruined," he 
said in a moan. "Ruined." 

"No, not yet. People are just nervous. They get that way 
around dead bodies and murder. Just as soon as the guy 
who's doing this is caught, business will pick up again. Hey, 
there's no shortage of tourists who want to see Graceland and 
Jerry Lee's house, not to mention Victorian Village and Beale 
Street. It'll work out. Besides, the taxi and limo service are 
still going strong." 

Tootsie perked up. "We have had increased business with 
Elvis week so close. Too bad we didn't get our licenses in time 
for prom season. We could have made a killing. Oh. Bad term 
to use, I guess." 

Harley gave him a pat on the arm. "See? It's going to be 
just fine. I'll do what I can, and you know the MPD is doing 
what they can. Two murders so close together have put them 
into high gear." 

"I know. Steve's working long hours." 

"Ah, the mythical Steve. In a year, I've seen no sign of 
him. Are you sure he's not a ghost or figment of your 
imagination?" 

Pursing his lips, Tootsie gave her a sly glance. "Anything 
but, darling, anything but." 

With Tootsie in a much better mood, Harley took off for 
the main library down Poplar Avenue. The bank of computers 
there came with help, and she didn't have to waste Tootsie's 
time or listen to his exasperated comments about her being 
technologically deficient. Here, they expected it and had a 
couple of geeks to help out. 

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The main library had recently moved to Poplar from its 
longtime location at Peabody and McLean, the old brick 
building demolished to make way for high-priced condos. This 
library was modern and sleek, with lots of glass, concrete, 
and a wide-open spaciousness to it. Somehow Harley missed 
the former one even though it'd seemed dark and dusty and 
had that scent peculiar to old wood and years of use. It'd had 
character. As beautiful and efficient as this one was, it felt 
cold and impersonal. 

At first she tried finding out information that would connect 
Leroy Jenkins and Derek Wade. Hours of Internet research 
didn't indicate any connection between the two victims. She'd 
hoped to find something on the Internet site for the Elvis 
competitions, but all she found were photos and mentions of 
winners and runners up for the past few years. There was a 
photo of Yogi, too, a serious look on his face as he struck a 
pose for the camera. She smiled. As crazy as her parents 
made her at times, she wouldn't trade them. Curbing some of 
their tendencies toward protests in public places and flaunting 
of the laws would be nice, though. 

So much for the easy way out. She'd just have to put 
some mileage on her car and shoe leather, it seemed. 

Harley attended another Elvis concert and interviewed Yogi 
and other Elvis contestants, careful not to imply police 
involvement or cross any lines that might get her arrested. 
Bobby had been serious. She'd heard that tone in his voice 
before. Spending time in a cell at 201 Poplar didn't appeal to 
her, and spending time with jail inmates dressed in orange 
jumpsuits had never seemed that attractive anyway. 

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None of the contestants were helpful. Most of them were a 
little puzzled at best, suspicious at worst. So far, all she'd 
learned that she didn't already know was that there were 
fierce rivalries among a few, but for the most part all the 
contestants viewed one another as extended family with the 
same shared interest in Elvis. Annual contests were often 
more of a reunion than any kind of rivalry. She'd narrowed 
the list down to a handful of those who didn't view the 
contests as a good-natured competition. Getting their names 
had been a real struggle. Most of the contestants were 
reluctant to speak badly about others. Their wives and 
girlfriends, however, had been a lot more talkative. She had a 
nice list of names, both professional and personal. Those were 
the ones she'd check out first. 

Plopping her leather backpack down on Tootsie's desk 
Monday afternoon, right before the office closed for the 
evening, she gave him a bright smile. He looked back at her a 
little warily. 

"Should I ask what's up?" 

"I have a list of names. The only way to check them out is 
a little one-on-one, so that's my next step." She held up her 
hand, palm out, when he started to speak. "As I've been 
advised not to take any risks or I'll face severe penalties, I've 
chosen a bodyguard to go with me." 

"Excellent idea. I approve. Who?" 

She tilted her head. "You." 

"Me?" Aghast, he stared at her. "Do you have a death 
wish? I weigh less than you do. Together, we might hit two 
hundred pounds. Hardly an intimidating team." 

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"You weigh more than I do, and anyway, it's not brute 
force that matters, it's brains. Or so I was informed recently 
by someone who likes to dress as Madonna and sing Material 
Girl." 

"I didn't mean it." Tootsie sat back in his chair and shook 
his head. "Everything I said was a lie. You just needed 
cheering up." 

"Uh hunh. Get up, boss man, and put on your mojo. We're 
going to tag team a killer." 
* * * * 

When Tootsie left his house that evening—one of those 
older, remodeled Midtown houses worth a fortune now, when 
once they'd been considered slums—Harley gave him a 
pained look. "What, you couldn't find anything more 
noticeable?" 

"Well excuse me, Vera Wang. I think this is fashionable 
investigative wear. You don't like it?" 

"Who's Vera Wang? And it's not that I don't like it, it's just 
a bit flashy when we need to blend in without drawing 
attention." 

"No wonder your wardrobe consists of jeans and tee 
shirts." He opened her car door and slid into the passenger 
seat, crossing his silk-clad legs with an elegant grace she'd 
never be able to manage. Black silk pleated pants coupled 
with a black silk shirt were all right, but the vest he wore 
sparkled with gemstones and some kind of glittery stuff that 
caught the light with his every movement. 

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"You look like a night light," she muttered, but let it go. At 
least he wasn't wearing a bra and mini skirt. 

When they reached the hotel and nightclub, it was already 
crowded. Tootsie stared at the rows of cars thoughtfully. 
"Who'd have thought there were this many Elvis devotees? I 
think it's rather nice they're so loyal after all these years." 

"Are you an Elvis fan?" 

"I appreciate his music and talent, but my first love is the 
blues." 

"Blues? I thought you were a big Madonna and Cher fan." 

"Oh, I am to a certain extent. I like impersonating them. I 
don't think an impersonation of Muddy Waters or Little Laura 
would be quite the same thing on stage, however." 

"Probably not." Another facet of Tootsie's personality that 
was new to her. He really was an intriguing person, and 
despite his often over-the-top penchant for cross-dressing, 
one of the most stable people she knew. 

That was a depressing thought. 

It was as crowded inside as it was in the parking lot. 
Harley winced. The noise level hit the decibel range of a jet 
taking off. She should have brought ear plugs. 

Tootsie leaned close to her ear. "Who should we talk to 
first?" 

"What?" 

"I said, who should we talk to first?" 

"I heard what you said, I just thought you'd have some 
idea about that." 

His brow lifted. "Remember, honey, you're the brains, I'm 
the brawn." 

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"Then we're in deep doo-doo on both counts. Here's the 
list. I have it narrowed down to nine. I chose them on 
grounds of competitiveness and personality, not to mention 
the nasty things said about them by the wives and girlfriends 
of the other impersonators." 

"You're so thorough." He took the list and scanned it. "So 
where do we start?" 

"With the ones who are about six feet tall and a hundred 
and seventy-five pounds. Rule out any who don't fit that 
description, then we'll go from there." 

"And we find these guys how? They're not wearing name-
tags." 

"You'll think of something. Improvise. Say you're looking 
for Sam Doyle, or whoever is on the list. Here. You take the 
top four, I'll take the bottom five. I already have your own list 
for you." 

"Aren't you the efficient little thing," Tootsie muttered, but 
he didn't look too unhappy. 

"I have my moments. You take that side of the room, I'll 
start over here." 

An hour later, Harley had eliminated three names from her 
list, one too short, one too fat, one too female. When had 
they let women in these things? It seemed self-defeating, 
seeing as how the point of the competitions was to look and 
sound as much like Elvis as possible in order to win. But who 
was she to judge? 

Finding Tootsie was not a challenge. Even in a room full of 
Elvises dressed in capes and draped in gold, his twinkling vest 
stood out. He was deep in conversation with an Elvis 

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impersonator that wasn't even close to six feet tall. Maybe it 
was a lead. Or a fellow cross-dresser. That thought led to the 
speculation that no one had ever dressed up as Priscilla 
Presley to her knowledge, and she wondered why. Did they 
ever have Lisa Marie impersonators? And if so, did they hang 
out with the Michael Jackson impersonators? 

"Oh, you found me," Tootsie said when she nudged him. 

"It'd be impossible not to, with that GPS system you're 
wearing." 

Tootsie ignored her. "We were just discussing the blues 
and how they affected the early years when Elvis was growing 
up. Gospel, rhythm and blues, all those old spirituals played a 
vital part in forming his musical talents." 

"Muddy Waters on the slide guitar, Pinetree Perkins on the 
piano, had to be his musical base," the Elvis agreed. "Elvis 
was happiest when he sang gospel, would stay up all night 
with the Memphis Mafia, singing his heart out." 

As much as she appreciated Elvis's talent, Harley had a 
mission. "Yes, he was remarkable. There'll never be another 
like him." She leaned close to Tootsie. "Are you ready to go 
now?" 

"No, but I assume you're ready. It was very nice talking 
with you, and I hope we meet again," Tootsie said to the 
Elvis, and to Harley as they walked away, "That was rather 
rude." 

"You're right. Sorry. I've been told I'm compulsive. What'd 
you find out?" 

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Sighing, Tootsie shook his head. "Two don't fit at all, one 
of them is a maybe, and one is worth looking at further. And 
that's obsessive, not compulsive." 

"Right. I've got two names on my list. That means we have 
three definites to consider, and one maybe, none of which are 
here at the moment." 

"So what about the guy you thought was on your van? 
Have you seen him tonight?" 

"Not a trace of him. If he's targeting just Elvis 
impersonators, maybe he's decided to skip the concerts and 
wait until the main competition starts." 

"Which leads to the question, why come to some concerts 
and not to others?" 

"I know." Harley sighed. "Maybe it really is just about 
some personal grudges, and no one wants to admit to it. But 
doesn't it seem odd that neither family knew about any 
grudges?" 

"Maybe not. Some people don't take work problems home 
with them." 

"Again, neither of the victims worked together, and as far 
as I can find out, they had no other contact. I even checked 
to see if Derek Wade had his car worked on at the auto shop 
where Leroy Jenkins is a mechanic, but nothing panned out." 

They stood outside on the covered sidewalk. Dull light 
gleamed in the stones on Tootsie's vest. Music from the 
concert blared out the open doors. It was a muggy night, 
damp heat pressing down like a wet blanket. 

"If that's true, then you're right about the conflict or 
motive stemming from the contests," Tootsie reflected, 

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frowning down at a piece of lint on the silk sleeve of his shirt. 
He flicked it off. "It's really the only logical conclusion." 

"I know. But it seems too obvious, if you know what I 
mean. Why would anyone kill over a trophy at an Elvis 
competition?" 

"Why would anyone kill over a five dollar loan, but it 
happens every day." Tootsie put his hand under her elbow 
and turned her toward the parking lot. "This has been most 
illuminating, and I'm glad I was able to assist. And the best 
part is, we've not been assaulted, insulted, or shot at the 
entire evening. See what you can do when you put your mind 
to it, girlfriend?" 

"How kind of you to notice." 

"Don't feel bad." He put his arm around her shoulders. "It's 
a good thing, just like Martha Stewart says. No shooting, no 
mugging, no fuss." 

"I guess that's supposed to mean I'm responsible for all 
those things," she said crossly, but didn't really take offense. 
It seemed to be true. How annoying. 

"Tomorrow I'll run those names through the computer and 
see what we can find, and then we'll figure out what to do 
next. I have extra access, you know, that lets me hit quite a 
few other databases." 

"Would Steve investigate for us?" 

Tootsie shook his head. "No. He's a lot like Bobby. He 
tends to want to abide by the rules. Inconvenient at times, 
but I've learned a lot just listening to him talk about past 
cases. It's amazing how easy it is if you just pay attention." 

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"I've figured out that observation isn't my strong point," 
Harley said as they reached the row where she'd parked her 
car. "Maybe that's why I end up in trouble at times." 

Tootsie halted, grabbing her arm to stop her. "It's dark 
back there. The vapor light is out." 

"Oh. Was it on when we got here?" 

"I think so. Wait a minute." 

He talked softly, and the hair on the back of Harley's neck 
tightened. It was dark. Lights on the interstate could be seen 
passing by, but the area where she'd left her car was pitch 
black. The building next door was unlit, and the hotel lights in 
front didn't reach this far back. 

"Do you think something's wrong?" she whispered after a 
moment. 

"I don't know. It just feels wrong." 

That was it. It didn't have to be lights flashing and bells 
ringing—it was the feeling that something wasn't right that 
provided a warning. It'd saved her butt a few times. 

"So what do we do now?" 

"I'm not sure." Tootsie looked around. Tension vibrated 
from him. "It seems okay. It's just..." 

"Dark," she finished, and he nodded, his body silhouetted 
by the light behind him. 

"Yeah. Too dark back there." 

"And I left my Mace in the car, dammit. Maybe it's just a 
coincidence that the light's out. Do you think?" 

"Could be. Well, we can either go back inside for a security 
cop, or keep going. What do you want to do?" 

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"The security guard is drunk and dancing alone. I'm not 
sure he'd be much help." She thought a moment. "You may 
be right. After all, who'd be dumb enough to jump us?" 

"The same guy who was dumb enough to sit on a van full 
of people and knife a guy in the back, I presume." 

"Oh. That one." She shivered despite the muggy heat. 
"Twice, if my suspicions are right." 

"Okay, we're going to the car." Tootsie sounded 
determined. "This is ridiculous. Here we are cowering in the 
parking lot because a vapor light is out. I refuse to let my 
imagination rule my intellect. The probability of someone 
waiting in the dark to jump us is much less than the 
probability of faulty lighting. Come on." 

"Right behind you, my fearless leader. This is really dumb, 
but you sound so brave I'm not scared anymore." 

That wasn't quite true. She grabbed his arm and kept in 
step with him, not behind and not ahead, so that they had the 
ungainly gait of contestants in a three-legged sack race. 

"You're hurting my arm," Tootsie said after a yard or two. 

"Sorry. Is that my car just ahead? It's so dark back here. 
The only light is from that damn vest you're wearing." 

"Then it's come in handy, hasn't it. I think that's your car. 
Home free, baby." 

Harley breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, a little terror is good 
to get the blood running, but I feel kinda stupid now." 

"Me, too. These murders hitting so close to home make me 
realize how you must have felt a few months ago. I take back 
what I was thinking about you. Or some of it, anyway." 

"I can't believe you were disloyal." 

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"Not disloyal." He stopped behind her car as Harley fished 
in her jeans pocket for her car keys. "Just uninformed." 

"And now you're well-informed?" 

"Better informed, anyway. What are you doing?" 

"Looking for my keys. I thought I put them in my right 
pocket." 

"Maybe they're in your purse?" 

"You know I don't carry a purse. My backpack is much 
more efficient. Ah. Here they are. I put them in the other 
pocket. Hold my pen and notepad, will you?" 

As she transferred the legal pad and her pen to Tootsie, 
she dropped her keys. Bending to pick them up, she heard 
Tootsie shout and jerked to the side just as something hard 
struck her in the left shoulder. Reaction set in and she 
dropped to the asphalt and rolled to the right. Footsteps 
sounded loud on the rough pavement, and she couldn't see 
anything but a vague blur over her, so she lashed out as hard 
as she could with both feet. She connected with something. A 
grunt and curse was followed by a high-pitched yell that 
sounded like Tootsie, but the language was unknown. 

More grunts and thuds mixed with scraping footsteps, but 
by the time she got to her feet, the assailant was running 
away. A little dazed, she looked toward Tootsie. 

"Are you okay?" they both asked at the same time, and 
then both answered, "Yeah." 

Harley inhaled a deep breath and tried to get her hands to 
stop shaking. "I don't suppose you got a good look at him?" 

"No. Tonight Elvis wore black, including a mask. You sure 
you're all right?" 

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"Just all shook up." She laughed without real humor at her 
own joke. "Except my left shoulder hurts. What'd he hit me 
with, anyway?" 

"He had a knife. Omigod, you're bleeding. We need to get 
you to the emergency room. Do you have anything to put 
over the wound? 

"A knife?" Lightheaded, Harley pointed to the trunk of her 
car, and Tootsie pulled out a couple of rags she kept in there 
for emergencies. He tied one around her upper arm, and gave 
her the other to press against the wound. 

Despite the pain in her shoulder, a cold chill went down 
Harley's spine. The sparkling stones and glitter on Tootsie's 
vest blended together in a colorful blur, a dull light in the 
darkness around them. She put out a hand to grab Tootsie's 
arm. "But if it's the same Elvis who's been killing the others, 
why did he attack me?" 

"Can we worry about that later? Get in the car. I'll drive, 
as soon as I find your keys." 

It took him only a moment to find the keys where she'd 
dropped them and he unlocked the passenger side door for 
her. "Why me?" she asked again, dropping awkwardly to the 
seat. 

As Tootsie lifted her suddenly heavy legs into the car, he 
said, "Sugar, he has to know you and Lydia can identify him. 
I'd say he's eliminating witnesses." 

Oh God. She leaned back against the headrest and closed 
her eyes. Her arm and shoulder began to throb painfully. As 
Tootsie started the car and shifted gears, she opened her 
eyes and said, "Someone needs to warn Lydia." 

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by Virginia Brown 

Chapter Seven 

Fortunately, Harley only had a flesh wound. If she hadn't 
bent for her keys, it might be a very different matter. Tootsie 
took her home from the emergency room, doped up and 
bandaged, and helped her into her apartment. 

"You should have let me take you to your parents," he 
grumbled. But even as drugged as she was Harley knew 
better. 

"No way. Diva would cleanse my aura and do all this 
mantric stuff, and Yogi would get a tire iron and go looking 
for the guy. I don't need a review of the seven chakras or a 
hernia getting the tire iron away from Yogi." 

"You're probably right. Want me to put you to bed?" 

Harley shook her head. "Please. I know you're just one of 
the girls, but I'm not an invalid. Not yet, anyway." 

Sam had perched atop the back of her cushioned chair. As 
Tootsie lowered Harley gently into it, careful not to touch her 
shoulder, the cat let out a shriek and leaped down. 

"Jesus," Tootsie gasped with a hand pressed to his chest, 
"that scared me almost as much as the Elvis." 

"Now you're scared? Why didn't you ever tell me about this 
Rambo part of your personality? Not that I'm complaining. It 
definitely came in handy. What was that foreign language you 
were speaking?" 

"A little self-defense class I took a while back. You're 
supposed to do these yells with it. You know, to unnerve your 
opponent." 

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"It unnerved me. So ... it's karate or something?" Her 
tongue felt thick and her voice came out all strange, slow and 
slurred. 

Tootsie's hazy face hovered above her, but she thought he 
was smiling. "Or something. Stay here. I'm going back to the 
car to get your takeout, and Steve is coming by to pick me up 
in a little while." 

Maybe she nodded her head. She wasn't sure. Her eyelids 
felt so heavy that she had a hard time holding them up. 
Waving the hand on her good arm, Harley got out, "Taco Bell. 
Food of ... the ... gods." 

As if through a fog, she heard Tootsie say, "This is your 
brain on drugs. Close your eyes and give them a chance. I'll 
be back in a minute." 

Lovely, lovely clouds wrapped around her, taking away the 
pain in her shoulder. Nice. If she stayed real still and didn't 
breathe too hard, maybe she'd float away on them. Why not? 
She was already light as a feather, drifting along, drugs 
relaxing her muscles, taking away pain ... wait. She couldn't 
open her eyes, couldn't lift her arms, could barely wiggle her 
fingers. Oh yeah. Now she remembered. She didn't like 
drugs. Anything that took away self-control and left her 
helpless as a slug was a bad thing. No ... she had to get up, 
not let freewill be sucked away. That's what she had to do. 
Was going to do. In just a minute... 

She must have dozed off, because when she woke up, she 
was alone and Sam was curled in her lap. Groggy, mouth dry 
as the desert and probably smelling like a litter box, she sat 
up gingerly. It was dark outside, and cool and quiet inside, 

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with a single lamp lit. Tiffany-style, it glowed on an end table 
in warm colors of ruby, emerald, brilliant blue, and amber. It 
was on low and didn't put out much light. Squinting, it took 
her a minute to find the note propped up on the table beside 
her. She had to blink a few times, careful not to do it too fast 
or her head might fall off, and peered at it. 

Didn't want to wake you, you looked so peaceful. Your 
grease is in the fridge, the phone is next to you, and your cell 
phone is charging. Keep your door locked and don't take 
candy from strangers. By the way, your hair could use a trim. 
Call me if you need me. Tootsie. 

Harley lay back on the cushions and smiled. Good 
girlfriends were nice to have. 

After a few minutes of testing her extremities one by one 
to see what worked and what didn't, she abandoned the chair 
and cat and made her way to the kitchen. She'd just opened 
the refrigerator door when a sudden loud whirring close by 
made her jump, banging her bandaged arm and shoulder 
against the open door. 

"Damn!" she yelped, clutching at her arm while her heart 
pounded and Sam's four paws thudded across the wood floors 
as he dashed for safety under her bed. For a moment she 
stood there. Then she recognized the whirr of the self-
cleaning litter box in the little alcove off the kitchen. She put 
her good hand against her forehead and stood there letting 
the cool air of the refrigerator chill her feet. "I've got to get 
hold of myself," she muttered. "Next thing, I'll be hiding 
under the bed with the cat." 

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She grabbed a two-liter bottle of Coke and swigged from 
it, relishing the sharp bite of the carbonation that went a long 
way toward waking her up. Then she burped, a long, 
satisfying sound, ignoring Grandmother Eaton's frequent 
admonitions that ladies did not make unpleasant bodily 
noises. She'd often wondered just what ladies did. Keep it all 
inside until they swelled up like hot air balloons? But of 
course, she'd never said that to Grandmother Eaton. She 
recognized that her grandmother's efforts were to make up 
for fourteen years of lost time learning table manners, social 
graces, and all the things that Diva, her eldest daughter, had 
left behind. Maybe her grandmother thought she could correct 
with Harley everything she'd not managed to perfect with 
Diva. But then, Diva was doing quite well without social 
graces and knowing which fork was the shrimp fork and which 
knife was the fish knife. And she was very happy, something 
Grandmother Eaton had finally begun to recognize. 

Who'd have thought it would turn out that way? Certainly 
not the Eatons. They'd been horrified and disapproving when 
Diva—still called Deirdre by her mother—ran off with a totally 
unsuitable young man by the name of John Davidson. It'd 
been a family scandal at the time, but since Diva and Yogi 
were in California by the time it got around to all the 
relatives, they'd never been concerned with disapproval. They 
just went on being happy and living in vans, moving from one 
place to the other, mostly staying in California. That had been 
during the heyday of the early seventies, when women 
burned bras, free love was everywhere, and staying in one 
place was "a drag, man." 

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If Yogi's parents hadn't died and left him the house he'd 
grown up in, Harley would still be in California, though 
probably not living in a van. Somehow, she was more like 
Grandmother Eaton in many ways—not exactly insistent upon 
appearances, but not really crazy about living like a nomad, 
either. It'd been a relief to move to Memphis and go to a real 
school, one that taught English, math, and spelling, not 
herbal remedies and the importance of the fourth chakra. Not 
that love, compassion, and acceptance weren't important, of 
course. 

Harley took the Taco Bell sack out of the refrigerator, 
hoping she'd ordered her usual. It heated better later. Ah. 
Bean burritos and nachos. Tootsie may try to convert her, but 
at least he knew her favorites. 

By the time she'd reheated her bean burrito, Sam had 
emerged from hiding. He expressed his disgust with her 
choice of meal by throwing up a hairball on the kitchen floor. 
She cleaned up after him and took her food back to the chair. 
Her head was clearer now, and she set her plate on the glass-
top coffee table. The thick bandage and sling on her left arm 
made it a little awkward. At least it wasn't hurting badly, just 
a dull throb. Bearable, if not desirable. 

Eating a bean burrito with one hand wasn't all that easy, 
she discovered, when the hot filling oozed out the end of the 
flour tortilla and onto her lap, so she loosened the straps 
holding the sling. Much better. Maybe she should learn some 
of that stuff Tootsie had done, the "Hi-ya!" yell and upward 
kicks. It'd been almost too fast to catch, especially in the 

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dark, but his vest had been a rapid blink of color as he turned 
and whirled like a ballet dancer. Graceful, if lethal. 

She shuddered at the thought of what could have 
happened if he hadn't been there. Maybe Morgan was right. 
There was always someone close by to rescue her. One of 
these days, her luck was bound to run out, despite the spirit 
guides Diva said were with her—unless Tootsie qualified. 

Thinking of Tootsie reminded her how close she'd come to 
disaster. Maybe their attacker was just a mugger. Or maybe 
he'd just been ticked off because they'd gotten his parking 
space. But if it had been the killer, why would he think only 
she and Lydia could identify him when there had been two 
busloads of tourists along for the rides? That didn't make 
sense. There were dozens of other witnesses, but the killer 
focused on her, and perhaps Lydia. Because they knew him? 
Was he a former employee? Parking lot attendant? Delivery 
guy? Damn, there was any number of choices to track down. 
She really wished she could find out what the police knew. 

First, Lydia should be warned to be careful. Since it had to 
be done delicately instead of bluntly—not Harley's specialty— 
she hoped Tootsie had already taken care of that. Dealing 
with a hysterical Lydia would make her forget the fourth 
chakra. 

With that unappealing thought in mind, she took the 
remnants of her Taco Bell meal to the kitchen. Instead of 
putting it in the fridge she threw it away. Morgan was right. 
Warmed-over burritos weren't very tasty. The microwave did 
something nasty to the sour cream. 

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Sam curled around her ankles, looking up at her with 
slitted blue eyes and purring, his tail straight up like a 
flagpole. He wanted something, of course. 

"Just like a man," she said to him, and he purred even 
louder, "always wanting something else and never happy with 
what you've got. All right, you little furball, how about a kitty 
treat? The pet store clerk said cats love them, so I'm sure you 
won't." 

Harley was right. Sam sniffed it a few times, and then 
walked away with the equivalent of a cat shrug. Really, that 
was one of her favorite things about him, his individuality and 
sense of independence. Not at all like King, slavering drool all 
over her shoes and wiggling ecstatically just for a word or 
two. They didn't even have to be kind words. 

Cami said there were cat people and dog people. She must 
be a cat person. She'd never say it to Cami, but she'd gotten 
really attached to Sam. If she let Cami know that, she'd end 
up with a dozen cats running around her apartment, so it 
would be a well kept secret. 

After pulling the curtains over the French doors to her 
small balcony, she checked the lock on the front door and 
turned out the lights. A couple of nightlights shed a small 
glow so she could find her way in the dark for midnight raids 
on the fridge, and so Sam could find his litter box for a night 
deposit. She'd bought one of those expensive electric ones 
that automatically scooped after him and saved her the 
necessity of continuous scooping. Other than a little bit of 
scattered litter and the whir it made while cleaning, it worked 
out fine for all concerned. 

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As she turned toward her bedroom, she heard her front 
door knob rattle and froze. Didn't most visitors have the 
decency to knock? Heart hammering, she fumbled one-
handed on the counter that divided her kitchen from her 
living area, searching for anything she could use as a weapon. 
At least the front door was locked, so the intruder would have 
to break in and that would be noisy enough to alert her 
neighbors—just as her fingers found a small, hard object, the 
front door swung slowly open. 

A dark shape silhouetted against the hallway light stood 
there a moment, and Harley flung the object in her hand at 
the head. Not waiting to see if it hit the target she grabbed 
for something else to use, hampered by throbbing pain in her 
left shoulder. 

"Oww, dammit, Harley!" 

She paused with her hand on a heavy candle and solid 
brass holder. "Morgan?" 

He said something under his breath, and then said aloud, 
"I see that you're not at death's door like I was told." 

Harley flipped on the lights. Mike stood rubbing his cheek. 
"What are you doing here?" she demanded, not sure if she 
was glad to see him or not. He had a big red spot on his left 
cheek and didn't look at all happy as he rubbed at it. He 
worked his jaw from side to side, apparently testing it for 
fractures, then blew out a heavy breath. 

"Tootsie called. He said you'd been stabbed, so I came to 
check on you. What'd you hit me with this time?" 

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"I don't know—oh dammit! My cell phone." It lay in several 
pieces on the gleaming oak floor and looked beyond repair. 
Again. "You could have called first, y'know," she said crossly. 

"He said he'd left you sleeping. I didn't want to disturb 
you. I should have remembered to wear a helmet and face 
guard." 

"So what were you going to do, sneak in and watch me 
sleep?" 

He shrugged. "Something like that, I guess. Just wanted to 
see for myself that you're all right." 

"Obviously, the wound isn't fatal." 

"Obviously." 

He stood there with the door still open, looking so good in 
his usual black jeans, tee shirt, and SWAT boots that she had 
a hard time not saying something stupid. Like Come lie down 
for a while, or Stay with me. That would never do. He'd 
wanted a break, so she'd give him one. 

After a moment, he said, "Got everything you need? If not, 
I can run to the store for you." 

"I'm fine. We stopped at Taco Bell and I have cat food. I'll 
make it until tomorrow." 

"You know the assault's been reported." 

Damn. She hadn't thought about that. Of course, the 
emergency room attendants would have to report it even if 
Tootsie hadn't. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, things like that 
were always reported to the police. 

"I don't remember talking to the police. Who did?" 

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"Tootsie. You were out of it, and Baroni told them you 
could be released to go home. A couple of uniforms took the 
initial report from Tootsie. Expect a call from Baroni." 

She sighed. "I'm so not looking forward to that." 

"I don't blame you. If you're okay, I'll go back to my 
stakeout." 

"Stakeout? You have a suspect for the Elvis case? And 
don't bother denying that's what you're working on, because I 
won't believe it. There's no other reason you'd have been in 
black leather pants and a TCB chain." She sat down on the 
arm of her cushioned chair. Morgan looked at her left arm and 
shoulder in a sling, and then shook his head. 

"Have you ever thought of applying for the police 
academy? Use your talents for good instead of evil?" 

"Stick to the issue. I've tried to stay out of sight and out of 
trouble, but tonight this guy attacked me. Tootsie thinks he 
might be trying to get rid of witnesses. What about the 
tourists on the buses? Aren't they witnesses, too?" 

"Yes, but most of them were from out of town. They've 
given statements and gone home, except for a few." 

"Oh." She thought for a moment, and then something 
occurred to her. "If you're on a stakeout and it's for this case, 
am I the one you're staking out? Or Lydia?" 

He just smiled. 

Harley didn't know whether to feel better or worse. If they 
were staking out her apartment to see if the guy came after 
her, then she was protected, but that also meant they 
thought she was in danger. There wasn't really a good side to 
this that she could see. 

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"Go away," she said. "My drugs are wearing off and I 
might get cranky." 

"Wouldn't want that. You're always so sweet." 

"Sarcasm to a poor invalid. Really, Morgan, that's police 
brutality." 

"So report me." 

Catching her by surprise, he closed the distance between 
them in two long strides, put his hand under her chin and 
kissed her. It was short, sweet, then over. Except for that 
tingle in the pit of her stomach. Damn. How did he do that to 
her? She stared at the closed door for a moment before 
getting up to lock it. Even with pain killers, it was going to be 
a long night. 

* * * * 

"What are you doing here?" Tootsie shook his head and 
scowled up at her. "You should be resting at home." 

Harley plopped her backpack down on his desk, a familiar 
ritual. "I've got some errands to run. Besides, I'd get more 
rest lying in the middle of Poplar Avenue. Did you send out a 
chain letter announcing my injury? Even my great-
grandmother called this morning to tell me I need defense 
lessons. Which reminds me—why didn't I know that you could 
do karate?" 

"You never asked." Tootsie took another call, and then 
looked up with a wink. "Someone like me has to know a few 
defensive moves. There are always guys who want to prove 
their manhood by beating up someone smaller, especially 
when he's wearing a blond wig and boobs." 

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"I guess that could be a problem." 

"Only if you can't defend yourself." 

Harley sat down in the chair close to Tootsie's desk. "You 
always seem so well-adjusted it's hard for me to think 
anybody wouldn't like you." 

"Strangers don't bother me. I just consider them ignorant. 
It's the family members who say and do things that get to 
me. You'd think after all these years I wouldn't care, but 
sometimes I do." He shrugged. "Everybody has a right to 
their own opinions and lives as long as they don't infringe on 
others, so I try to overlook it." 

"I'm sorry." 

Leaning back in his chair, Tootsie retied his ponytail with 
the elastic band, adjusted the phone headset and said lightly, 
"Don't be, darling. We can't choose our family, just our 
friends." 

"Good thing. Think of all the therapists that'd be out of 
business if we could." 

"You always have the right answers. Ah, the delightful 
buzz of more cancellations. Do excuse me, bankruptcy is 
calling." 

Three lines had lit up at once on the console next to the 
computer. The console was new, the computer not. Tootsie 
had seemed disappointed about the latter, but managed to 
make do. He'd loaded a bunch of new programs in it that 
made his life a lot easier, he said, especially when she 
observed that he was on the Internet a lot for someone 
supposed to be booking clients. Since computers were among 
the things she found convenient but uninteresting, she took 

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his word for it so he wouldn't go into detail about gigs, 
megahertz, and other incomprehensible terms. 

Musing about differences between friends and family 
members, Harley thought about her own family. Which led to 
thoughts about Patty Jenkins, which progressed to 
speculation about Leroy Jenkins. He'd moved in with a 
roommate in Frayser. She really needed to talk to him even 
though the police most certainly had already done so. Maybe 
there was something she, as a non-police officer, could find 
out. People were usually more comfortable talking to civilians 
in a casual situation than they were the police, especially if 
they'd ever transgressed in some way. All she had to do was 
make a quick visit. She still had that address written on the 
back of one of the Memphis Tour Tyme business cards Patty 
Jenkins had refused to take. 

"How do you drive one-handed?" Tootsie asked during a 
lull in cancellations. 

"Slowly. I just have to hold the wheel with my knees and 
shift gears with my right hand. The bad thing is, I can't drink 
Cokes while I drive right now. By the way, I've got a bone to 
pick with you." 

"Pick away. But if you're going to bitch at me about calling 
Morgan, it won't do you any good. You know you're glad." He 
leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips in that bitchy little 
way he had. It turned into a smile when she flipped him a 
one-fingered salute. 

"But why him? You could have called Cami." 

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"Please. You two together are just double trouble. I wanted 
someone to watch out for you who actually can watch out for 
you." 

"I don't need a keeper." 

"Baby, as many bodies as you run across, you need a 
scorekeeper. Here." He grabbed his car keys off the desk and 
held them out. "Take my car. It's an automatic. You're less 
dangerous on the streets that way. Just don't spill any Coke 
on my leather seats." 

"Did I ever tell you that you're my favorite person?" She 
took his keys. "I'll leave you my keys in case you need to go 
somewhere." 

"That's all right. You'll be back before I leave. Won't you?" 

"Of course. But you know, I'm sure, that my best 
intentions somehow get screwed up on occasion, right?" 

He held out his hand. "Right. Give me your keys. Just in 
case." 

Tootsie had a four year old Acura with leather seats and all 
the bells and whistles any hedonist would need. Harley sighed 
with pleasure as she snuggled into the buttery-soft seat. She 
had thought about buying a new car since she had that extra 
money in her savings account, but couldn't justify it. She had 
her Toyota, after all. It ran just fine and never gave her any 
problems. Now that her Harley-Davidson Softail Deuce with 
over-under dual exhaust and a Twin 88 cam belonged to her 
and not the finance company, her only bills were her Visa 
card and the basics like rent, phone, utilities, and food. And of 
course, her monthly cell phone replacement. That ran pretty 
high lately. It'd be nice if they made a rubber one. 

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There were three errands on her list—cell phone 
replacement, a chat with Leroy Jenkins's roommate, and a 
visit with Lydia Free, who also had a paid leave of absence. 
Being related to the ogre apparently had perks. 

It took only a few minutes to replace her cell phone. The 
clerk recognized her in the parking lot, got out a new cell 
phone and had it ready by the time she reached the counter. 

"See you next month, Ms. Davidson," he called as Harley 
left, and she just barely kept from saying something really 
rude. If there hadn't been children in there... 

Leroy had lived off Frayser Boulevard, in a duplex that had 
seen much better days. Harley set the alarm on Tootsie's car 
and managed to get up the sidewalk without tripping over 
chunks of broken concrete uprooted by a huge dead tree. It 
looked bleak, not like the other houses. 

After knocking a few times, the door opened. A guy who 
looked to be in his late twenties to early thirties stood there. 
He had brown hair that looked like he cut it with an electric 
fan, hard eyes, and grease streaks on his face. Must be the 
roommate. He wore a greasy shirt with his name on the 
pocket. Darren. He leaned against the doorframe and gave 
her a gap-toothed grin. 

"Well, hello, green eyes. Did it hurt?" 

"What?" 

He pointed at her arm. "When you fell from heaven." 

She barely kept from rolling her eyes. "As a matter of fact, 
yes. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Leroy?" 

Darren's grin disappeared. He narrowed his eyes at her. 
"You a cop?" 

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"No. I'm with Memphis Tour Tyme. Leroy was killed on our 
van. Here's my card." She held it out and after a moment, he 
took it. He had grease blackening his hands and nails, but an 
auto mechanic usually did. 

"So, whatcha wanna ask me? I don't know nuthin' much 
about Leroy. He just crashed here when his old lady threw 
him out. Paid his rent on time, and that's all I cared about." 

"Did you ever go with him to the Elvis events?" 

"Hell, I didn't even know he was a freak until a few weeks 
ago. Comes in with all that Elvis crap, looking like a dumbass 
and sounding like shit." 

"Uh huh. I'll take that as a no. Did he ever say anything to 
you about a fight with other contestants, maybe a dislike of 
any of them?" 

Darren shrugged. "We didn't talk that much. Worked 
together, might watch a few ball games together, but not 
much else." 

"Did Leroy ever talk about his wife?" 

"Talk? Hell, all he ever did was moan about how she kept 
him from his kids. Wouldn't let him see 'em. Said he had to 
pay to play." He frowned. "How does any of this have 
anything to do with a tour company? Sure you ain't the 
cops?" 

"Mrs. Jenkins has requested monetary damages, and there 
has to be an assessment of the amount lost by her husband's 
... demise." A half-truth. She smiled. "I'm sure you 
understand." 

"That greedy bitch. Wouldn't surprise me none if she had 
him killed. Did you talk to her yet?" 

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"Once, but I'm sure I'll talk to her again." 

"Then give her this, will ya? I forgot to put it with the rest 
of Leroy's stuff." He left the duplex door open when he 
stepped inside to pick up a stack of envelopes from a table 
littered with empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and half-
eaten pizza. Along with unwashed body and probably 
decaying food, the sweet smell of marijuana drifted out the 
door. He held out the envelopes. "It's Leroy's mail. I don' 
know what else to do with it, so she might as well have it." 

"I'll see that she gets it." 

Darren smiled at her again, showing empty spaces where a 
couple of teeth had been. "I bet a hot number like you has 
lots of guys after her, huh." 

She took a step back. There was no good answer to that. 
"Thanks for your help," she said, and walked away with him 
still in the doorway looking at her. 

"Anytime you feel like goin' for a beer, stop by," Darren 
called after her, and she pretended she didn't hear him. 

Harley looked over the mail when she got in the car, 
wishing she was brave—or stupid—enough to open the 
envelopes. Most of it looked like bills or junk mail, but a 
postcard with Elvis on the front lay wedged under a 
Publisher's Clearing House envelope. Shamelessly, she turned 
it over to read it. 

Words that looked like they'd been printed by a computer 
Inkjet nearly jumped out at her: 

"There's to be a special interview with Channel 3 before 
the concert August 2. Dress as you would for the competition, 
and take the Memphis Tour Tyme van that will be at the Omni 

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Hotel at 2:00. Do not tell the other contestants about the 
interview, please. There's only room for a few of the best. 
Claude Williams will meet you in front of Graceland." 

The postmark was dated July 30th. So who was this 
Claude Williams? Maybe she should find out how Leroy had 
been chosen. And why he'd been told to board her van when 
he wasn't on her passenger list. There had to be an 
explanation. 

Harley decided to take Leroy's mail to Patty Jenkins before 
she visited Lydia, with only one side trip. She didn't need a 
Federal charge hanging over her head for tampering with the 
US mail, but making copies wasn't really tampering. 

When Patty came to the door with a cigarette hanging 
from one corner of her mouth, she narrowed her eyes at 
Harley. "Thought I told them cops to do something about 
you." 

"So you did. I just thought you might want your dead 
husband's mail." 

Patty hesitated and then took it from Harley's outstretched 
hand. "I don't, but I'll take it. Get out of here." 

"I'm on my way." She stepped back, and then turned just 
before Patty shut the door. "By the way, did Leroy know 
about you and Darren?" 

It was one of those shot in the dark things, just something 
to see what she'd say or do, but Harley didn't expect her 
reaction. Patty went red, then white. 

"Damn him! What'd that sonuvabitch say to you?" 

"Enough. Do the police know?" 

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Patty stepped out of the house and shut the door. "Listen, 
it wasn't like that. Only once or twice. No big thing. But if 
Leroy found out, he'd have used it against me. Taken the 
kids." 

Harley thought maybe they'd have been better off with 
him, but didn't say it. She just shrugged, and then winced at 
the pain in her shoulder. 

"So why'd Darren break up with you?" 

"It wasn't like that, no matter what that asshole says. He 
had to go and tell Leroy he could move in with him, and I 
wasn't going to take any chances. I told him to leave me be 
after that." 

"Maybe Darren didn't take it so well." 

"That ain't my problem," Patty said. "Dumbass. Guess he 
thought it'd be funny to sneak around on Leroy while he's got 
him living with him." 

If that was true, Harley thought after she'd left, then it 
gave two more people motives for getting rid of Leroy. Which, 
of course, didn't explain Derek Wade's death. She mulled that 
over for a few minutes, and then decided to visit the Wades 
again. Maybe Derek had received a card. 

Though a little perplexed, the Wades were gracious enough 
to look in their mail basket. 

"I may have thrown away his mail that didn't seem 
important," Mrs. Wade said as she shuffled through papers in 
a wicker basket. "He didn't get much anyway, just a few 
things—ah. Here it is. Yes, Derek did receive a card from the 
Elvis competition people. He was very good, you know." 

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Scanning it, Harley looked up at her. "May I borrow this, 
Mrs. Wade? I'll return it to you as soon as possible." 

"Yes, of course you may. You don't have to return it." 
Tears welled in the older woman's eyes. "He doesn't need it 
now." 

Harley didn't know what to say so she just put her hand on 
Mrs. Wade's arm and nodded. It felt awkward, yet at the 
same time as if a connection had been made. An image of 
Derek as he must have looked to his mother flashed through 
her mind. How sad. 

Once in Tootsie's car, she held the card next to the photo 
copy she'd made before taking Leroy's card to Patty. Almost 
identical except for the dates. Derek was to meet Claude 
Williams the day after Leroy was killed. So who had sent 
them? And why? A lure? But to be so bold as to kill intended 
victims right in the middle of a crowd? It just didn't seem 
logical. If it wasn't logical, could it be true? Damn. 

This was evidence the police needed. She'd turn it over to 
them. After she made a copy of Derek Wade's postcard, of 
course. There was a limit to her cooperation, though the main 
thing was to catch the killer. It didn't really matter now who 
managed it first. She just didn't want Bobby to accuse her of 
obstruction when she was only trying to help. 

Lydia Free rented a room near the Dixon Art Gallery off 
Park Avenue. Harley found the house easily enough since it 
was down the street from the very first house Elvis had 
bought for his mother on Audubon. She parked in a separate 
parking area in the back, next to Lydia's car. It looked like the 
back door was the main entrance, so she rang the bell and 

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waited. No one came. She rang the bell again. It was a pretty 
big house, so maybe it just took some time to get to the 
door. When no one answered after a few minutes, she opened 
the storm door to knock, figuring there might be trouble with 
the electricity since several MLG&W trucks were on the street. 
If someone had hit a light pole on Park, it'd put out lights for 
the entire neighborhood. 

Her first rap on the wooden door swung it open. It'd been 
left ajar. Harley got an uneasy feeling. Other than hers, 
Lydia's was the only car in the driveway, but that didn't mean 
Lydia was here. She could have gone walking, or ridden with 
someone else. Still... 

Maybe she should call the police and have them check out 
Lydia's apartment. But what if she was just taking a nap, or 
jogging around the block? Or lying out in the sun? Harley 
walked over to the tall wooden fence, took a plastic bucket 
left in front of the garage, upended it and used it as a ladder 
to peek over the top. A tree had fallen over and just lay there 
with the leaves still green. Bushes were high and the grass 
needed cutting, but no Lydia. 

She retrieved her new cell phone from her car, locked it, 
and went back to the house. This time she stuck her head in 
the open door and called, "Lydia? You home? It's Harley." 

Nothing but silence. 

She got that tingling again, like the time she'd gone into 
Mrs. Trumble's house and found her dead on the floor. This 
couldn't be the same thing. Could it? 

Sucking in a deep breath, she stepped into the hallway. 
Straight ahead was a laundry room and to the right was a 

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closed door. A spiral staircase climbed to a room overhead, 
and to the left she saw a living room with doors leading into 
other hallways and rooms. She had no idea which one was 
Lydia's. Might as well start with the closest. 

She rapped lightly on the door, and when there was no 
answer, opened it. A huge room cluttered with musical 
instruments and tall speakers opened onto the back yard. 
French doors were wide open, letting in hot air and flies. Odd, 
but hardly ominous. 

Closing that door, she went on to the next. A check of 
three more downstairs bedrooms, the kitchen, dining room, 
and living room, didn't produce Lydia or anyone else. Harley 
began to feel like a burglar. If someone came in, how would 
she explain her presence? 

Okay, just a quick look upstairs and she was done. A flight 
of stairs off the living room seemed the most likely for an 
apartment, and she went up as quietly as possible. When she 
got to the top, she called for Lydia again. "Lydia? You here?" 

No answer. 

She put a hand on the knob and turned it slowly. The door 
swung open and she peered in. A big dormer window let in 
light that fell across what was obviously a small sitting room 
that led to the bedroom. A kitchenette lay off the sitting 
room, small but efficient. Thick carpet cushioned her feet as 
she crossed to look in the bedroom. Clothes lay discarded on 
the floor. Beyond the bedroom, the sound of rushing water 
seeped out from another closed door. 

Relieved, Harley felt like a fool. Of course. Lydia was 
taking a shower. That's why she didn't hear the doorbell or 

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knocking. What an idiot she was, looking for trouble behind 
every door. She really had to get over this. Recent experience 
made her much too jumpy. She'd wait in the sitting area for 
Lydia to get out of the shower, and hope an unexpected 
visitor didn't scare her too badly. 

Nice little place, really, small but fairly tidy except for the 
clothes on the floor. Even the kitchenette off the sitting room 
had sparkled with cleanliness. She'd always figured Lydia for 
the sloppy type. Which only proved Diva was wrong about her 
daughter having keen perceptions. 

Halfway back to the sitting room, Harley paused. 
Something about those clothes on the floor... 

She went back and looked at them more closely. Dark red 
splatters stained the tee shirt and shorts. A strong smell hit 
her when she knelt down to look at them, and her heart 
began to thud rapidly. Blood? 

Looking up at the closed bathroom door, Harley rose and 
moved cautiously toward it. She dreaded what she'd find in 
the shower, images from the movie Psycho flashing through 
her mind. The bathroom door was unlocked, and she pushed 
it slowly open. Steam billowed out and fogged the mirror over 
the vanity sink. A black shower curtain had been pulled 
across the tub, hiding it. Heart still thudding hard enough to 
break a rib, she held her cell phone ready in her left hand and 
put her right hand out to pull back the shower curtain. She 
jerked quickly, and then stared. Blood ran down Lydia's face 
onto her shoulders and made red puddles in the tub. 

Harley screamed. 

Then Lydia screamed. 

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Chapter Eight 

"Tell me again why you're here?" Lydia, wrapped in a huge 
towel and shivering, glared at Harley. 

"I wanted to talk to you about the murder on your bus." 

"You couldn't have called?" 

"In retrospect, that would have been a much better idea. 
You shouldn't leave your doors unlocked. Why are you dying 
your hair red?" 

"Not that it's any of your business, but my therapist said a 
change might be good for me." Lydia pulled a smaller towel 
from her head. "I thought dying my hair red might be a good 
start, but then I spilled it everywhere, on my clothes, and 
now it's on my face—I must look horrible." 

"You do resemble an accident victim, but a little baby oil 
ought to take care of that. I can help, if you'd like. I've helped 
my brother dye his hair a few times, so I have experience." 

Lydia looked uncertain, but Harley convinced her that she 
could be useful. It didn't take long to scrub the dye stains 
from Lydia's forehead, cheeks, and neck. When Harley 
realized one of the smaller stains she was trying to scrub 
away was a freckle, she stopped. 

"There. All done." 

"How do I look?" 

Lydia peered up at her, and Harley didn't have the heart to 
tell her the truth. Diplomacy would work much better. "As 
good as new." 

"Red's not my color, is it." 

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Now there was no escape. Harley shook her head. "Not 
really. I think you'd look good as a blonde, though." 

"Do you?" That seemed to please Lydia, because she 
smiled. "Maybe I'll try that." 

"Go to a professional next time. Just in case." 

Lydia nodded. "So what'd you want to know about the 
dead guy on my tour?" 

"Not really so much about him as about the guy who sat 
down next to him. Was there any distinguishing feature you 
can remember that might identify him?" 

"I already went through all this with the police. They were 
just two Elvis impersonators. I get a lot of them this time of 
year, reduced rates since they're part of the entertainment, 
just like you do." 

"I know. But my van was all Elvis impersonators, while you 
had only two. I thought you might be able to recall something 
different about either of them." 

Lydia frowned. "Does Uncle Les know you're doing this, 
asking all these questions?" 

"You mean Mr. Penney?" 

"Well, yes. He's my uncle, you know." 

"I've been asked by the company to do what I can to help 
the police find the perpetrator." That sounded middle of the 
road, true without straying too far into details. 

"Oh. I didn't know. Okay, I'll tell you what I told the police. 
The other Elvis was tall, I guess somewhere around six feet, 
not fat but not skinny. He had on a black wig but the 
sideburns looked real. I didn't pay too much attention to him. 

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It was so noisy in there, everyone talking at once, and I was 
just trying to get through the day." 

To Harley's surprise, Lydia blinked away some tears. "I 
told Uncle Les that I'm not good at this sort of thing, that I 
wanted to work in one of the other offices as a receptionist or 
in the accounting department, but he said I had to start out 
at the ground floor first." 

"Maybe now he'll transfer you," Harley said 
sympathetically. 

"I'm not going back if he doesn't." She shuddered. "Finding 
that man dead ... And the man who killed him was right 
there, and he could have killed all of us." 

""I think he picked his victim before he got on that bus." 
When Lydia looked hopefully at her, she added, "And I think 
they knew each other. One of your passengers told me that 
there was a disagreement over seating." 

"Now we know why." 

Harley nodded. "Were there any words between them, 
maybe, anything you might have overheard?" 

Lydia shook her head. "They were sitting too far back. 
Even if I'd wanted to hear them, I wouldn't have. Everyone 
was making too much noise." 

"Talking?" 

"Singing. Someone started that Jerry Lee song, Great Balls 
of Fire, and then everyone started singing it. It was like 
Columbo, when he figured out the guy used music to disguise 
the murder." 

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"Uh huh." Lydia was known to consider TV shows reality, 
but this time she might be right. Singing would mask any 
noise the victim might make when stabbed. 

Still, it didn't make a lot of sense. It was too risky. No one 
in their right mind would plan a murder in a bus full of people. 
Would they? 

* * * * 

"The mistake you're making," Tootsie said, "is assuming 
that a murderer has a right mind. Except for a crime of 
passion or self-defense, any murderer is basically 
unbalanced." 

"Is that you or Freud talking?" 

"Please. Don't insult Freud." Tootsie got up from behind his 
desk. He switched off the desk lamp and picked his keys up 
off the counter. "These murders were bold, yes, definitely 
risky in a crowd, but no one can identify a killer who looks like 
a hundred other people who all look like Elvis. In its way, it's 
a perfect disguise." 

"That's what I said." Harley leaned glumly against the 
desk. "I'm sure the police have recovered evidence, though— 
fibers, fingerprints, shoeprints—something that'll identify 
him." 

"This isn't TV. It's not going to get solved in an hour—forty 
minutes without all those commercials. It takes a while to 
gather and process evidence. It may take weeks or months." 

"Oh great. Well, I'll do what I can, but I'm about at a 
dead-end here." 

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by Virginia Brown 

"That's all right." Tootsie smiled wryly. "It was a crazy idea 
of mine anyway. The ogre wasn't at all happy to hear I'd 
asked you to investigate." 

"I can imagine." 

They'd started for the door when the office phone rang. 
Tootsie paused. "Damn, I forgot to switch it over to the 
answering service." 

Harley waited while he answered it, leaning over the 
counter to punch the buttons and give his usual spiel. She 
looked at her fingers and the nails chewed to the quick. There 
must be a better habit to have. This one was unattractive. 
She dug in her backpack for some gum and found the 
postcards. She'd forgotten to mention them to Tootsie. Maybe 
he'd know what to make of it. 

Then she lifted her head to look at Tootsie when he said, 
"What? When? Okay. We're on our way. Just don't touch 
anything." 

He hung up, pressed a few buttons and looked at Harley. 
"There's been another murder in one of our vans." 

The police got there before they did. Cruisers flashing blue 
lights nosed in around the van parked under the hotel 
overhang. Charlsie Spencer stood by the door and stared 
blankly ahead, her face reflecting nothing but flashing blue 
lights. Harley knew just how she felt. 

"Want to go inside and sit down?" she asked her, but 
Charlsie shook her head. 

"No. I just want to wake up." 

"I know. A nightmare, isn't it?" 

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Charlsie turned to look at her. "How do you do it? Deal 
with it, I mean. Death is so ... ugly." 

"Murder is ugly." 

Charlsie was married with two little kids, a pretty woman 
with soft brown hair and blue eyes, a little on the healthy side 
but not fat. Just rounded, a Marilyn Monroe kind of round. 
She shivered despite the heat. 

"Yes," she said, "very ugly." 

Harley hesitated. Maybe she shouldn't ask her any 
questions. She looked pretty rattled. It could wait. 

But then Charlsie turned to look at her, eyes a little glazed 
as if she was seeing something horrible, and said in a 
whisper, "I thought he was asleep. I went to wake him ... I 
touched him on the shoulder and he ... he just fell forward. 
Then I looked at my hand. There was all this blood on it, so 
bright red and sticky ... like my little girl's fingerpaint. I didn't 
know what it was at first, and then I realized..." 

She began shaking again and Harley put an arm around 
her shoulders. "It's okay. You'll be fine. Has anyone notified 
your husband?" 

Charlsie nodded. "David's on his way." 

Harley waited with Charlsie until her husband arrived, and 
the look on his face when he saw his wife was a mix of panic 
and relief. They held on to each other for a few moments 
before he let her go, and even then, he kept an arm around 
her shoulders. 

Looking at Harley, he asked, "Can she leave now?" 

"You'll have to clear that with the police. If she's given her 
statement, I imagine they'll let her leave." 

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When they left, Harley found Tootsie. He stood talking to 
the police, not far from one of the smaller vans. If this kept 
up, they wouldn't have any vehicles left. Two vans and a bus 
were out of commission until the police ended their evidence 
gathering. It put a cramp in scheduling tours during their 
busiest month. Though cancellations were cutting into that. 

One bright spot was Bobby's absence. He must be on 
another case. Thank God. She didn't think she could deal with 
him right now. He'd ask questions she didn't want to answer, 
and he knew her well enough to know when she was lying or 
evading. That was never good. 

Finally, Tootsie came to stand beside her. He looked 
stressed. "You okay?" she asked. 

"No. Three vehicles from our fleet are temporarily 
sidelined. Even if I get back the van you were driving, I'll be 
two short next week, during the busiest season. Not to 
mention the bad publicity, with all these guys getting killed on 
our buses. Fifty thousand people will be here soon, all 
probably using other tour companies." 

"Let Mr. Penney worry about that. Besides, this is only 
temporary. You've got friends at the TV stations and the 
paper. Get them to put a different spin on it, how Tour Tyme 
has taken extra security measures to ensure the safety of 
their clients during the festivities or something. I've got a 
friend in the security business. I'll ask Butch to give us cheap 
rates." 

For a moment Tootsie just stared at her. Then he nodded, 
though he didn't look less stressed. "That'd be great. 

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Security. It might help. Then again, it might backfire. What if 
tourists think it's too dangerous to come to Memphis?" 

"It's too dangerous to cross the street anywhere these 
days. That doesn't stop anyone." 

"True." Tootsie looked a little relieved. "It might even 
work." 

"See? You feel better already." 

"I'll feel better when I see a healthy bottom line after all 
this is over." 

"Sometimes I just can't figure you out. I know job security 
is important, but why should you get so upset about profit 
and loss?" 

"Think of it this way, baby. A healthy profit means a 
healthy payroll. Besides, you don't have to work close to 
Lester Penney every day, and I do." 

"Ah. There is that to consider. It pays to keep the ogre 
happy." 

"A logical conclusion." 

"Speaking of logical conclusions, I know I've said this 
before," she said as they headed toward Tootsie's car, "but 
it's just not logical for someone to take such a big risk killing 
these guys on tour vans. Why not kill them at the concerts? 
In the bathrooms, or outside diners, or in alleyways, at 
home? Somewhere it's not so crowded. Why stab Elvises right 
in the middle of a group of tourists sitting on a tour bus?" 

"Why stab them at all? Why kill just Elvis impersonators?" 

"I take it this last death is—" 

"An Elvis impersonator. Last seat in the back row, stabbed 
right in the heart." 

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"While the other people were singing Great Balls of Fire." 
When Tootsie gave her a strange look she said, "I talked to 
Charlsie. She told me they were singing. I'm sure it helps 
hide any, uh, noise." 

Once in the car, Tootsie said, "I'm beginning to think these 
victims aren't random, but specifically chosen. Maybe there's 
a connection between them that we're missing." 

"I used library records to check everything I know to 
check—work, family, friends, even looked up their old schools 
all the way back to kindergarten to see if they might have 
known each other. Nothing." In the pause, she pulled out the 
two Elvis postcards from her backpack. "Except these. Both 
victims were sent these postcards directing them to take a 
Memphis Tour Tyme bus and ask for Claude Williams when 
they reached the concert." 

"Who's Claude Williams?" 

"I thought you might know, but it's definitely something 
we need to find out." 

"Have you informed the police about this yet?" 

She shook her head. "Not yet. I don't want to talk to 
Bobby. He can be such a jerk." 

"Maybe you should talk to Morgan, give him the evidence." 

"Even worse. Besides, if I call him, he's liable to think I 
just want to see him, and I don't want him to think I'm 
chasing him." 

"How sixth grade of you." 

"Oh, shut up." 

Tootsie laughed and said, "I'll call Bobby if you want." 

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"Would you? I'd just as soon not get arrested if I can avoid 
it." 

"Then I'll be discreet." 

Harley sighed. "He'll see right through that. He's almost as 
good at it as Diva." 

"I think cops develop a sixth sense. At least, the good ones 
do." 

"Then Bobby must be one of the best. So, what do you 
think? There has to be some kind of connection between the 
two cards and the dead Elvises. I'm willing to bet this third 
victim got a postcard, too." 

"If he did," Tootsie said grimly, "then we've got a serial 
killer targeting only Elvis impersonators." 

"Yeah, but not randomly. He's got some kind of devious 
plan. It must be one of the Elvis contestants trying to knock 
off the competitors." 

"That makes more sense than anything else." 

"So maybe we need to find out if these victims were any 
competition, and who's listed as the favorite this year." 

Glancing at her, Tootsie nodded. "That's where we'll start." 

"I'll ask Yogi who the favorites are. He always knows that 
kind of stuff." 

* * * * 

"Preston Hughes was favored to win this year, but he 
dropped out of the competition." Yogi lowered his voice as if 
they were in public instead of his own living room. "I heard he 
got disqualified because of an incident last year between him 
and a few other competitors." 

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Harley stared at him. "And you didn't think it might be 
important to mention that to me?" 

"Why? He's not in the competitions this year." 

She bit her lip. "Okay. So, who were the guys he got into it 
with last year?" 

Shrugging, Yogi put aside the crystal necklace he'd 
brought in from his shop. "I don't know. One of them was 
Derek something, I think." 

"Derek Wade?" 

"Could be. Preston claimed Derek stole part of his act." 

"How can you steal part of an Elvis act? There are only so 
many songs and so many suits you can wear." 

"Harley." Yogi looked horrified. "Each act is individual, with 
certain songs and costumes, the way you move and sing and 
connect with the audience and judges—it's what counts the 
most in a performance. It's not like just anyone can get up 
there and sing like Elvis, you know." 

"All right, all right. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply it doesn't 
take talent." 

Yogi smiled. "I know you didn't." 

So forgiving. He rarely held a grudge against an individual, 
though for the past thirty-six years he'd held a deep-seated 
resentment and dislike of the U.S. government no one had 
been able to alter. Only a few had tried. It had something to 
do with the sixties draft, the Vietnam war, and Orwell. At 
least he wasn't discriminating. He hated Republicans and 
Democrats alike. He also disliked drug companies, huge 
corporations and their CEOs, and "corrupt journalists." The 
list was much longer, but Harley tried not to dwell on it. On 

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the plus side, Yogi loved his family, children, animals, and lost 
causes, not necessarily in that order. 

All in all, she'd begun to discover that her family wasn't as 
bad as she'd always thought. Or maybe it was just that they 
weren't that much different from other families, in that they 
had their quirks that didn't always coincide with societal rules. 
They just didn't bother hiding them. 

"So," she said, "who can I ask about the disqualification?" 

Yogi thought for a moment. "I'm not sure. The organizers 
of the event would know, of course, but they'd never discuss 
it. Maybe you could ask Claude Williams." 

"Claude Williams?" Aha. The man both Elvises were 
supposed to meet. "Who is he?" 

"He's in charge of publicity." 

That made sense. The victims wouldn't have questioned a 
postcard with his name on it. So, that either meant the killer 
was an impersonator himself, or had intimate knowledge of 
the way the competitions were run. It was a toss-up. An Elvis 
or an employee. 

"Any idea where I can find Williams?" 

Yogi shook his head. "Nope. You might try looking for him 
at a concert. He's usually there with a camera." 

The official competitions started soon. Competitors would 
be coming in from all over the world, and so would people 
coming to commemorate the day Elvis died. A serial killer on 
the loose would definitely be bad for the tourist business. 
Evidently, this serial killer picked on Elvises only, so he had to 
be a part of the competition, and Preston Hughes was 
beginning to look like a prime suspect. 

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"When's the next concert?" she asked her father, and Yogi 
smiled. 

"Tonight. We've been having them every night, sort of a 
warm-up to the Super Bowl. Gives us all a chance to try out 
our acts, work on what needs to be changed." 

"So you think this Claude Williams will be there tonight?" 

"It's possible. He's been coming to a lot of them. Seems 
nice enough, I guess. Diva says he's greedy." 

"Why did she say that?" 

Yogi shrugged. "You know your mother. She's always 
saying things. Half the time I don't know what she means." 

"I have complete empathy. So, maybe I should show up 
tonight and talk to him." 

Yogi frowned. "Wait a minute—I'm not sure I like you 
doing all this kind of stuff. It always seems to involve danger. 
Do you have any idea how that scares us? How scared we are 
for you every time you get mixed up in this kind of stuff? For 
God's sake, Harley, you just got stabbed!" 

"Tell me about it. This time, though, I'm staying away from 
anyone who even looks at me wrong." 

Yogi stared at her shoulder, still bandaged although she'd 
abandoned the clumsy sling. "I don't think you're doing such 
a good job. Why don't you get Bruno to go with you?" 

Harley sighed. "His name is Mike, and he's working on an 
undercover case." 

"Then take your brother." 

Looking at the couch where Eric slept with soft snores and 
green hair, she shook her head. "I don't think he'd be that 
helpful. Besides, he probably has a gig of his own." 

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"Not tonight. I don't want you roaming around town when 
some killer's out there. Take Eric with you." 

"What could that beanpole do even if I did run into the 
killer? Offer him a toke?" 

Yogi reached over and shook Eric. "He's wiry. Stronger 
than he looks. I'll feel better if he goes with you." 

Appalled, Harley stared at her brother in dismay when he 
opened sleepy blue eyes and looked up at her. "Hey, dude," 
she said with a sigh of resignation. 

He blinked. "Hey, cool chick." 

Yogi said, "Get up and go with your sister to protect her." 

Sitting halfway up, Eric yawned. "Where's she going?" 

"To an Elvis concert." 

Eric's eyes got wide with horror. He looked from Yogi to 
Harley. "Chiiiick!" 

She smiled. Sometimes there were perks in the most 
unlikely of circumstances. 

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Chapter Nine 

Harley rolled her eyes at her brother. "It's not like I'm not 
a little tired of going to Elvis concerts myself. The least you 
can do is shut up about it. Let me concentrate on my driving, 
all right?" 

"But, chick—Elvis? You know that ain't my thing. Couldn't 
you have gotten someone else to go with you? Diva could 
have come along instead of me." 

"She has to help Yogi with his costume. You know that." 

"Why not Cami? Or that Bruno guy?" 

"Cami's at work and Mike is, too." 

"I've been hijacked by an Elvis terrorist," he muttered. 

"If you don't shut up, I'll sign you up to sing Hound Dog." 

"Wouldn't do you any good," Eric grumbled, but he finally 
stopped complaining. He put on his earphones and turned up 
his CD player. Thank God. He'd whined all the way from the 
house, and she was about ready to put him out on the corner. 
Any corner. But in this neighborhood, he'd get mugged. 
Especially wearing black baggy pants with a dozen zippers 
and shiny chains, a black Slayer tee shirt, and green hair 
standing straight up on his scalp that looked like a Bermuda 
lawn that needed mowing. 

"I need to practice saying 'I love my family' several times 
a day," she said, but Eric didn't hear her with his music 
turned up. She could hear his music though, guitar riffs, 
drums, and bass all mangled together. It sounded like a train 
wreck. 

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When they pulled into the hotel parking lot, Eric stopped 
using her dashboard as a drum set and gave a pained look at 
all the cars crowded together. "Are there this many 
weirdoes?" 

"Have you looked in a mirror lately, dude?" 

Eric flipped her off and she returned the salute with a grin. 
Some things never changed. After several round trips through 
the lot she found a parking slot at the very back again. Why 
did that seem to be the only place she could ever find? She 
debated not taking it, but the vapor lights had been replaced 
and it was fairly bright. Besides, it seemed to be the only one 
left. 

"We're looking for Claude Williams," she said when they 
were inside the concert, this one apparently a family night as 
a few dozen kids ran around screaming and the lights were 
up. 

Eric looked around in dismay. "I'm not a kid person." 

"Really. And you have so much in common. You start 
asking a few people if he's here tonight, and get them to 
point him out. Say you want him to promote your band or 
something." 

Eric gave her a horrified look. "Chick! You gotta be 
kidding." 

"So lie. I know you can do it. Remember the gig you're 
supposed to have the last night of the Elvis competition? I 
happen to know your lead singer's going to be out of town 
that night. I'll keep your secret, but you have to cooperate." 

"Chick, you're not playing fair." 

"Get over it. Take that side of the room. I'll start here." 

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Harley found Williams after only two questions. A middle-
aged man with a balding head and thick glasses, he was very 
cooperative. She showed him her copies of the postcards 
received by both men, and he shook his head. 

"I never sent those, as I told the police just a little while 
ago. Must be some kind of error on the part of the concert 
organizers. Any interview would be conducted openly, not 
secretly. We aren't affiliated in any way with the actual 
competition. These concerts are just for the performers to 
refine their acts, give them a little more stage experience and 
entertain others who revere Elvis and his music." 

"Would you know anyone who might have sent them by 
mistake?" 

"No, we have a small staff for these concerts. Just me and 
my wife, actually. I can't imagine who else would send these." 

Well, she'd expected as much. Someone was using his 
name as a lure to get the victims to take the vans he 
specified. And it had to be someone who knew about Claude 
Williams. 

"How long have you been doing these concerts, Mr. 
Williams?" 

"Oh my ... let me see. About five years. Just a part-time 
occupation, of course, but once a year I throw myself into it." 
He smiled genially. 

"Do you ever perform? I notice you've got the Elvis 
sideburns." 

Williams chuckled. "On occasion I've been known to get on 
stage, though most of the time I'm better at taking 
photographs and promoting." 

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"What's your favorite Elvis costume?" 

"Um, I'd have to say my favorite is the black leather of his 
sixty-eight tour, but it's not the most flattering for me, so I 
usually wear the white jumpsuit. I even have the eagle one. A 
reproduction, of course." 

Williams wasn't quite six feet, but close. He looked a little 
under a hundred seventy-five pounds, but in an Elvis outfit, 
that might easily be misjudged. Harley put him on her short 
list of possibles. 

Just as she opened her mouth to thank him for his time, 
Eric grabbed her elbow. "Chick! You're not gonna believe 
this—Bruno's here in an Elvis outfit! Can you believe it?" 

Harley tried to cut him off, but Eric paid no attention. He 
just kept talking. 

"Man, that beats everything I've seen, an undercover cop 
playing Elvis. Did you know he did this kind of stuff?" 

Gritting her teeth, Harley got out, "No, I'm sure you're 
mistaken. You probably just saw someone who looks like 
him." 

"Oh no, I'd know that dude anywhere. It's him. His pants 
are too tight to stash a gun, though. You gotta come see 
this." 

Williams looked shocked, and Harley wondered if that was 
a flicker of anger she saw in his eyes. Or fear? Damn. She'd 
known better than to let Yogi talk her into bringing her 
brother. 

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Williams," she said calmly. 

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She waited until she was several yards away before she 
grabbed Eric by the arm. "You idiot! Why'd you have to say 
that out loud?" 

Eric looked surprised. "Say what?" 

"That there's an undercover cop here, you moron!" 

"I didn't say that, I said Bruno—oh. Guess I did. Sorry, 
chick. I was just so surprised to see him decked out in black 
leather and Elvis hair I didn't think that he might be ... uh ... 
working." 

Harley sighed. "I understand. I had the same reaction. It's 
just that it was a bad time to say that when I was talking to a 
possible suspect." 

"That bald guy? He doesn't look like he could kill a can of 
Coke." 

"It's guys who look like that who're the worst. Let's go. I 
got the information I came for, so I don't have to torture you 
any longer." 

Eric shrugged. 'That's okay. I'll wait until Yogi does his bit 
onstage. It'd make him happy for me to stay." 

"You know, sometimes you act human." 

"Don't get used to it." 

While Eric joined their mother, who was fussing over Yogi's 
costume and hair to get it just right, she went out into the 
hall and pulled out her cell phone. Three kids came screaming 
by as she dialed, and she cupped her hand over the phone. 
She got Morgan's answering service, as she'd expected. 

"Hey. Sorry about this, but your cover's been blown. 
Claude Williams knows you're an undercover cop. Just wanted 
to let you know." 

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She hung up and stared at the ugly wallpaper for a 
moment. He'd be mad about it, and so would Bobby, but at 
least they'd been warned. And at least it hadn't been all her 
fault. 

After the concert ended, Eric walked her to her car. The 
vapor light was burning brightly over it, and he said, "If 
you're okay, I'll ride home with Yogi and Diva." 

"I'm fine. It saves me a trip." 

Once out of the parking lot, she breathed a sigh of relief. 
Stupid to get so nervous, but the last week hadn't exactly 
been the most reassuring time of her life. Her shoulder still 
ached, and she wondered what it would have been like if the 
cut hadn't been so shallow, if it had been deeper than just a 
slice across her upper arm and shoulder. 

When her cell phone rang, she knew who it was before 
answering. She let Dixie play a moment before giving in to 
the inevitable and pulling over into an empty parking lot to 
answer. 

Morgan sounded calm. "Would you mind telling me who 
blew my cover?" 

"Is it that important? I'd rather not be a tattletale." 

"Probably not, but humor me." 

"Eric came with me tonight. He recognized you." 

There was a moment of silence, and then Morgan said, "I 
should have known. Diva and I agreed that we wouldn't tell 
Yogi, but we never thought about your brother." 

"Diva knows? Wait. That was a stupid question. Of course 
she'd know. She always does. She's very observant, not to 
mention her special talents. So I take it Yogi doesn't know?" 

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"Apparently, he's not very observant." 

Harley sighed. "True. I don't fall far from his genetic tree." 

"I wouldn't say that." 

"You don't have to say it. I recognize my limitations. I just 
can't do much about them." 

"Work a little harder at it. So who did Eric tell?" 

"Claude Williams, who promotes these concerts leading up 
to the big competition next week. Williams is on my short list 
of possible suspects, by the way, since he had opportunity 
and his name was on the postcards sent to the first two 
victims." She paused. "But you probably know all this." 

As usual, he didn't confirm or deny. "I take it you're still 
poking around in this despite your promise to Baroni." 

"I didn't promise him I'd stop. I just promised I'd be 
careful, and anything I found out I'd share with the police. 
I'm doing that." 

"Do you have a death wish? You've already been stabbed. 
Whoever is doing this isn't playing around, Harley." 

"I know that. Why do you think I'm taking precautions? 
But I'm already involved in this whether I want to be or not. 
I'm an eyewitness, remember? Lydia and I are the only ones 
left who might be able to identify this guy, and he's already 
tried to get rid of me. I hope you're keeping a close watch on 
Lydia. I'm worried about her." 

"Unlike you, she doesn't leave her house these days. Why 
don't you try that?" 

"Maybe I should, but I don't like the thought of just sitting 
and waiting for some killer to show up at my front door. I'd 
rather be unpredictable." 

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After a moment of silence, Morgan laughed softly. "Well, I 
can't say you aren't that. I've never met anyone as 
unpredictable as you." 

"I'd say thank you, but I'm not at all sure that was a 
compliment." 

"Neither am I. Look—be careful, Harley. If anything 
happened to you, I couldn't stand it. Okay? Just ... be 
careful." 

Mike hung up before she could respond, and for a moment 
she just sat there. It almost sounded like he cared. Really 
cared. Damn him. Why'd he have to go and be confusing like 
this? She didn't want to think about him. She had to think 
about these murders, and not let herself get distracted. 

And then she thought about him saying almost the same 
thing and got really irritated. She didn't want him being right. 
She preferred righteous indignation. Being wrong was the 
pits. 

* * * * 

When she got home she pulled out a yellow legal pad and 
drew a line down the middle of the paper. She headed one 
column Williams and the other one Hughes. Then she listed 
beneath each one the opportunities and possible motives. It 
was a very short list. 

Williams had opportunity, being involved in the concerts, 
but Hughes had motive. She'd have to dig into their 
backgrounds, find out what she could about each now that 
she'd narrowed it down to those two as possible suspects. 
And of course, find out the identity of the third victim and if 

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he'd received a postcard as well. For these things, she'd need 
Tootsie's help. 

Sam jumped up on the counter where she sat with her 
legal pad, and plopped down atop it to look up at her with 
slitted eyes and a soft purr. She tried to move the pad from 
beneath him but he wouldn't budge. 

"Why is it you always want to sit on my newspaper or 
writing pad when I'm busy, and ignore me when I'm trying to 
get you to play?" 

Sam's reply was a tap on her pencil. Then he bit the 
eraser, going into some kind of feline ecstasy at the taste of 
rubber, while his expensive cat toys remained untouched in 
the basket. She leaned close to him. 

"You're being a pest," she said, and he only purred louder. 
"Apparently that's part of your charm. I seem to prefer 
difficult blue-eyed males with absolutely no hope of being 
civilized." 

Dixie began to play, and she abandoned Sam to dig her 
cell phone out of her backpack. It was Lydia. 

"Harley, I just remembered something about the Elvis on 
my bus," she said with a note of excitement in her voice. "It's 
possible that I'm wrong, but I don't think so, as it really did 
look like him. Do you think I should mention it to the police?" 

"Of course. What did you remember?" 

"It's the oddest thing, and it was so long ago it's taken me 
forever to think of it, but then I just did. It came out of the 
blue, just a thought, you know, and then I knew it had to be 
him since who else could it be?" 

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A little impatient, Harley said, "Well for heaven's sake, 
Lydia, who is it?" 

"Well, I'm not positive, but—Harley, hold on a minute, will 
you? The utility guy is here. We're still having problems with 
our electricity." 

Harley could have screamed with frustration, but instead 
chewed on her nails. This could be something that'd lead to 
the killer. Unless Lydia was off on one of her "TV turns into 
reality" moments. That had happened before. Once she'd 
related an entire story of someone being killed by a falling 
stone gargoyle, only to say later it was an episode of Sherlock 
Holmes. 

Pacing, Harley went to the French doors looking out over 
her balcony and Overton Park. Lights marked the roads that 
were closed at night, and in the distance, a lion roared. She 
heard Lydia speak to the utility guy but didn't catch the 
words. It sounded like she picked up again, and Harley said, 
"Lydia? Lydia?" Then her cell phone went dead. Damn. Of all 
times! She probably needed to recharge it. It took her only a 
short time to plug it into the charger and bring up Lydia's 
number and redial. Lydia's phone rang. And rang. She might 
be trying to call her back, so Harley hung up and waited. Five 
minutes passed before she tried again. Still no answer. No 
answering machine. Just the ringing that went on until the 
phone company cut it off. She looked down at her cell phone 
and saw that it was fully charged. Maybe it hadn't cut her off 
after all. 

That annoying prickling on the back of her neck urged her 
to call Morgan as she grabbed her car keys and headed out 

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the door. "Lydia's not answering her phone," she said when 

he answered. "Someone needs to check on her." 

"So maybe she's in the shower." 

"No. I was talking to her and she said she'd remembered 
something about the Elvis on the bus. Then she said the 
utility company was at the door and we got cut off." 

"I'm on it." 

The line went dead. Harley jumped the last three stairs to 
land in the foyer and ran out the door to her car. She didn't 
like what she was thinking and hoped she was wrong. Oh 
God, let her be wrong. 

When she got to the spacious house on Audubon, police 
cruisers were in the driveway and on the street with flashing 
blue lights. Her stomach dropped. Maybe they were just 
checking things out. Lydia would be on the front porch 
shivering and saying silly stuff in her squeaky voice while the 
police looked for a prowler that didn't exist. Maybe everything 
was all right. 

Then she saw the crime scene unit and knew. Nausea sat 
in the back of her throat, and she couldn't move. She sat 
there at the curb for what seemed an eternity and just 
watched. It didn't seem possible. Police coming and going, 
lights set up, uniformed officers investigating, looking in 
bushes, fingerprinting doors. It was a surreal nightmare. 

A tap on her driver's door window startled her and she 
jumped. Then she saw Bobby. She let down the window and 
he bent to talk to her. 

"You okay?" 

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She nodded yes, but suddenly tears were streaming down 
her face and she felt stupid. He handed her a cloth to use as 
a hanky and she took it. Bobby looked sympathetic. 

"I didn't know you two were that close." 

"Neither did I." She shook her head and said, "We weren't 
close, really. I was just worried. She was so upset and 
scared. Did ... did she suffer?" 

"It was quick." 

She nodded and took a deep breath. "Morgan told me the 
police were watching her. How did it happen?" 

"They were watching the sides and front of the house. The 
back is fenced, opens up onto a drainage ditch, lots of brush 
back there." 

She remembered the open French doors the day she'd 
gone to visit Lydia. "I should have said something. I saw the 
back doors open ... I should have told her to make sure they 
were locked up." 

"Don't start blaming yourself. Harley—" 

"I know. I know what you're going to say. You're right. 
Morgan's right. But now she's dead." 

"That doesn't mean you killed her, or could have done 
something to stop it." 

She thought for a moment. "Two witnesses who might 
identify the killer—Lydia and me. The killer just got rid of one, 
and I'm next." 

Bobby didn't say anything, and Harley knew he recognized 
the truth as well as she did. After a moment, he asked, "Did 
Lydia say anything important to you?" 

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Harley shook her head. "She was going to, but then the 
knock came at her door. She did say she'd remembered 
something about the Elvis on her bus, but it'd been a long 
time." 

"That's all?" 

"Except that it looked like him, so it had to be him. 
Something like that. I should have listened more closely." 

Bobby nodded. "We'll need to get a formal statement from 
you. Tomorrow will be soon enough." 

"Have you noticed it's only Elvis impersonators he's 
targeting? I think he's mad at the contestants. Or organizers. 
Maybe it's someone who's been disqualified. Like Preston 
Hughes." 

"Maybe. We've got our theories." Bobby straightened. 
"There's nothing you can do here tonight. Go home, Harley. 
I'm sending a unit to make sure it's safe. Don't bother 
arguing with me." He paused. "The killer could be watching us 
now, watching the investigation, disguised as an average 
spectator." 

It was on the tip of her tongue to say something tacky 
when he bent and leaned in the window again. He smelled 
like aftershave and coffee as he chucked her under the chin. 
"Hey, as much as you piss me off, I don't want anything to 
happen to you." 

Her smile felt wobbly as she said, "Yeah, who would you 
have to complain about if I was gone?" 

The unit he sent with her checked out her apartment, 
opening closet doors and cabinets, even checking behind the 
shower curtain and on the balcony. Then they told her to use 

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the deadbolt before they left. She locked up behind them and 
leaned against the door. Poor frightened Lydia. Poor foolish 
Lydia. She hadn't taken the simplest precautions of keeping 
her doors locked. If she had, Harley wouldn't have been able 
to scare her in the shower that day. That must be how the 
killer got in. What had Lydia remembered about him? 
Whatever it was, it'd gotten her killed. 

Harley shivered. Sam, who'd stayed hidden while the 
police officers checked everything out, emerged from his 
hiding place with a soft miaoow. Or what passed for soft with 
him. Harley picked him up, and for once he didn't try to get 
away but let her hold him. 

Cami had been right when she'd said having a cat could be 
nice. Sam must sense how upset she was and was trying to 
comfort her in his own way. He rubbed his head under her 
chin and purred so loudly his entire body vibrated. She 
stroked his back and went to her chair to sit down, holding 
him against her chest as she tried not to think about anything 
at all. 

A knock at her door sent Sam bolt upright. He leaped from 
her lap, leaving claw marks on her arm, and disappeared 
behind the TV. 

"So much for sympathy," she muttered as she went to her 
door. She peeked out the hole in the middle and then slid 
back the deadbolt. "Come on in. You can help me pour 
hydrogen peroxide over my wounds." 

"How did you get wounded again?" Morgan shut the door 
behind him. 

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"Sam-sympathy gone bad. The knock on the door scared 
him." 

"Oh. Sorry." 

The scratches weren't bad. Taking care of them took just 
enough time for Harley to recover from her surprise at seeing 
Morgan at her door again. It felt awkward. 

"So, what are you doing here?" she asked once they were 
back in the living room and he had refused her offer of a 
Coke. He perched on the arm of a chair and crossed his arms. 

"Just thought you might need a friend." 

She nodded, a little irritated by the tears that stung her 
eyes. "I'll be fine. Lydia wasn't a real friend, just an 
acquaintance, but it still hurts to think of the way she died. 
She was always so frightened and didn't even want to be a 
tour bus driver, but her uncle wanted her to learn the 
business from the ground up. I felt bad for her then and even 
worse now." 

"What do you think she wanted to tell you when she 
called?" 

Harley narrowed her eyes. "Wait a minute. Are you here 
on a friendship basis or just trying to get more information 
out of me?" 

"Friendship." Morgan met her gaze steadily. "Don't answer 
if you don't want to. It's just the cop in me trying to figure 
out what she knew that got her killed." 

"Okay. I believe you." Harley plopped into her chair and 
ran a hand through her hair. It probably stuck up like railroad 
spikes, but she didn't care. "She said she'd recalled 

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something about the Elvis on her bus, that it'd been a long 

time but she'd just remembered." 

"And she didn't say what had been a long time?" 

Harley shook her head. "She didn't have a chance to. All 
the other victims have been Elvis impersonators," she said 
after a moment. "Lydia is the first one who isn't. Could it be a 
random murder, a burglary gone bad or rape or some other 
horrible crime, or is it linked to the Elvis murders? That 
thought keeps going through my mind. And of course, Bobby 
pointed out that we were witnesses who might remember the 
killer, too. How could the maniac think no one else might 
have noticed him on that bus? The vans were full of tourists. 
Any one of them could remember him." 

"The descriptions they gave are basically the same as the 
one you and Lydia gave. Maybe the perp thinks you have 
more reason to remember him. Could it be someone you work 
with?" 

That thought hadn't occurred to her. She stared at him. 
"Why? If it ruins the company, we're all out of a job." 

"That doesn't always matter. Maybe it's a former 
employee. Anyone leave on bad terms? Was there an 
argument with management?" 

"Not that I know about. You'll have to ask Tootsie that 
question. He's been there a long time and he'd know. I've 
always thought Rhett Sandler has the personality of a biscuit, 
but he's not the kind to kill someone. Of course, not many of 
us like Mr. Penney, but it's not so bad that anyone would 
want to kill people over it." 

"You'd be surprised." 

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"So you're checking out all the employees?" 

Morgan shrugged. "Just theories. Look, I don't want you to 
stay here alone. Think you could stay at your parents' 
awhile?" 

"Oh please. I can't leave Sam alone, and King would be 
delighted to have a new toy. That wouldn't work at all. Sam 
might hurt him. Imagine Yogi's horror." 

"Any other relatives? Your grandparents? Your aunt?" 

"I'd rather take on Elvis. Look, I'll be fine here. Really." 

"I'm sure you won't be surprised if I disagree." 

Harley sighed. "I've got Mace and a cell phone. I have 
deadbolts. And I can't identify the killer." 

"He may not know that. He's already tried to kill you once. 
He did kill Lydia." 

She shuddered. That was very true. "Excellent point. All 
right. I'll go stay with family tomorrow." 

"Out of town would be best." 

"You're just trying to get rid of me." 

Morgan smiled. "Only for a little while." 

When he stood up, Harley tried not to focus on distracting 
things like the way he looked in a tight tee shirt and jeans. Or 
the way his eyes lingered on her a little bit longer than 
necessary, as if he was remembering their nights together. 
Lord. She'd been planning a hot bath, but maybe she should 
make it a cold shower instead. That crooked smile of his 
always did her in. 

"Take care of yourself," he said, "and lock the door behind 
me." 

"Right. You, too." 

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Well, she thought when he was gone, she'd really sounded 
lame. Her shoulder hurt and her head had started to throb 
right behind her eyes. Maybe she should take an aspirin. And 
chase it with a bottle of wine. This day had been too much. 

Instead, she took a cold shower, chased an aspirin with 
Coke and went to bed. Tomorrow always seemed to come 
before she was ready. 

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Chapter Ten 

"Hey, Harley Jean! I haven't seen you in a while. How you 
doing?" Mrs. Shipley called across the street from Harley's 
parents' house on Douglass, and Harley managed to wave 
back. 

"Just fine, Mrs. Shipley. You sure do look nice today." That 
was code for "not as bizarre as usual" when it came to Sadie 
Shipley. A widow in her sixties, she preferred flamboyant hair 
to match her clothes, a style that often drew startled glances 
from the uninitiated. Neighbors were accustomed to it, 
however. Today she was almost subtle. Bright yellow hair 
complemented her bright yellow long tee shirt and knee-
length knit capris, and she wore plastic sandals with big 
yellow daisies atop each foot. She made Harley think of 
marshmallow Easter Peeps. 

"You home to stay, Harley Jean?" 

Not wanting to drag out the conversation, Harley shook 
her head and kept walking up the sidewalk to the front porch. 
"Just staying a few days." 

"You'll have to come over for some Karo pecan pie while 
you're here, Harley Jean." 

Actually, that didn't sound bad. Mrs. Shipley made the best 
pie around. "I will," she called as she got the front door open 
without dropping Sam's cat carrier. He'd been very vocal 
during the fifteen minute drive, and had ruthlessly expressed 
his displeasure with her efforts to get him into the carrier. 

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Cami had made it seem so easy. Of course, she'd had much 
more practice. 

Once inside, Harley set the carrier on the coffee table next 
to half-finished necklaces and dream-catchers while Sam kept 
up a yowl loud enough to peel bark off trees. Diva came from 
the kitchen to greet her. 

"While you're here we can cleanse your aura and make you 
feel better with Reiki," she said calmly, somehow able to be 
heard even over the cat's howling. 

"Aura cleansing is fine, but no Reiki. That's too much like 
torture. I can't believe it does any good for anyone but 
orthopedic surgeons who charge big bucks to put people back 
together after they've had it done." 

"You're thinking of Shiatsu." Diva smiled. She never took 
offense at Harley's skepticism. "I know something that will 
relieve your tension and help your headache. Here. Give me 
your hand." 

After putting her backpack on the coffee table next to 
Sam, Harley held out her hand. Her mother's cool fingers 
found the pressure points on her hand and wrist. Using her 
thumb and fingers, she pressed gently, and oddly enough, 
after a few moments Harley's headache eased. 

"I don't know how you do that," she said. 

"It's not a secret. Anyone can do it. For instance, I apply 
pressure to move the body's energies along established 
pathways, or meridians. Facial pain or headaches can be 
relieved by applying pressure to the hand, because at that 
point a meridian connects the two areas. Each meridian links 

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a number of areas of the body. By applying pressure, you 
direct the energies to heal the body." 

Harley uncrossed her eyes. "Right. I'll try to remember 
that." 

Diva released her hand after another gentle squeeze. 
"Yogi's in his workshop. He's nearly through with the bigger 
windmill he's been working on." 

"I'll go out and see him after I take Sam up to my 
bedroom. Maybe he'll stop screeching once I get him out of 
this carrier." 

"Animals are like people. They don't like being 
imprisoned." 

After setting up his litter box and putting out his food and 
water, Harley opened the carrier door. Sam burst out like a 
cream and brown rocket. He streaked past the litter box, full 
food bowls and water, and out her open bedroom door. For a 
startled instant, she crouched beside the empty carrier with 
her mouth still open, the soothing words she'd started to say 
still unuttered. It hadn't gone at all like she'd planned. Cami 
had assured her he'd hide under her bed or a piece of 
furniture before he got brave enough to come out for his 
food. Apparently, Sam had not been informed of that. 

There wasn't any sign of him in the hall or upstairs 
bathroom. Her brother's and parents' bedroom doors were 
closed. That meant he'd gone downstairs. A crash from below 
confirmed it. 

Harley arrived in the kitchen just in time to see that Yogi 
had fixed King's pet door. King pushed through it at about the 

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same time Sam bounced off the kitchen table and headed for 

the opening. They met nose to nose. 

King was delighted. 

Sam was not. 

He performed a series of intricate cat karate moves with 
slashing claws and guttural snarls that startled King and 
sounded like something out of the Exorcist. Then he was 
gone, back into the dining room. A little late, King started to 
yelp. Chaos ensued as Yogi arrived to rescue his dog. 

By the time Harley found Sam and got him back to her 
bedroom, she was sweaty, bloody, and panting. As soon as 
she released the cat, he disappeared under her bed. She 
knew where he was because of his high-pitched moans. 
Leaning back against her closed door, she began to think this 
hadn't been such a good idea. She should have nailed her 
doors shut and stayed home. 

The unmistakable sounds of Sam hacking up a hairball 
under her bed confirmed that. When she had enough 
strength, she'd put him back in the carrier and return to her 
apartment. It'd be better than watching the door every 
moment to make sure cat and dog did not meet again. 

"You're making this difficult, you know," she said to the 
cat. "You got along just fine with Cami's dogs. King's not so 
bad. Most of the time. Some of the time. You could overlook 
it. We won't be here that long. I hope." 

There was no response from Sam, but that wasn't unusual. 
After a moment, Harley got up and opened the door, 
intending to go to the bathroom to wash her face and 
scratches. King darted between her legs and into the 

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bedroom, immediately finding Sam under the bed. Shouting 
for Yogi, Harley grabbed the dog by the tail to keep him from 
the cat. A scuffle ensued. 

"This isn't going to work," Harley said when Yogi finally got 
King back into the hallway and Sam was on top of a tall 
bookshelf spitting globs of saliva at the ceiling fan. "I knew 
better. I'm going back home." 

Yogi looked worried. "Maybe you could just leave the cat in 
your apartment with lots of food and water, and I'll go check 
on him every day." 

"No way. If this nut job is crazy enough to kill Elvis right in 
front of a van full of tourists, he's crazy enough to hurt my 
cat. And you. I'm not willing to risk it." 

Diva settled it. She called Nana McMullen and asked if 
Harley and Sam could stay with her and for a few days. Nana 
was delighted. Harley was less so. 

"Doesn't she live in a nursing home?" 

"Whispering Pines. It's assisted living. Very nice. Like 
condos in a mall setting. Nana has a two bedroom place with 
a screened porch. Meals are served in the main dining room, 
there's a beauty shop, doctors on staff, and buses to all the 
local stores." 

"Don't forget three trips a month to the casinos," Yogi said, 
and Diva smiled. 

"That's true. Nana does love the slot machines." 

"There's always someone there," Yogi added, "and they 
lock the doors at night and no one goes in or out unless 
they're checked first. It's the perfect place to be safe." 

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Even though her parents sounded a lot more enthusiastic 
than she felt, Harley gave in. She hadn't seen Nana in a 
while, and she did enjoy her most of the time. But staying in 
a community of elderly people didn't sound like something 
she'd want to do for long. 

"I'll give it a try," she said reluctantly. Maybe it wouldn't 
be so bad. After all, she'd get a lot of rest. Older people took 
plenty of naps. 

* * * * 

"About damn time you came to see me," Nana said, 
dispensing with any civilities in her usual manner. At nearly 
eighty-six, Nana McMullen resembled a quintessential elderly 
Southern lady, small and white-haired, her pale skin thin and 
soft, and her eyes a bright blue. But there was nothing fragile 
or prim about her. She'd grown up during the Great 
Depression, borne her first child at fifteen, outlived three 
husbands, and lost none of her snap. 

Harley grinned. "Glad to see you too, Nana. I've missed 
you and wanted to visit." 

"Bullshit. You're only here because you're trying to hide. 
What, you think I don't read the newspapers or watch TV? 
Doesn't matter why you're here, I'm just glad to see you. Is 
that a cat?" 

Harley set down the carrier. "His name is Sam. He and 
King have personality conflicts." 

"That dog is demented. Cute, but crazy. Fits right in. See if 
Sam likes my screened porch. There are lots of birds flying 
around the feeder outside that he can watch." 

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"Sam is picky, but as long as there's not a dog trying to 
wear him as a furry hat, he should be okay." 

Sam was better than okay. Immediately intrigued by the 
abundance of birds at the feeder, he crouched atop a wicker 
table to stare at them and make little noises low in his throat. 
Probably the feline version of "Come into my parlor." 

After Harley set up the litter box and put out his food and 
water bowls, she went inside to find Nana in front of the TV, 
swearing at a baseball game. 

"Who's your favorite?" she asked in a lull, and Nana looked 
up with something like surprise on her face. 

"Atlanta, of course. Though I like our home team, too. 
Ever been to a Redbirds game?" 

"Uh, no. I've been to AutoZone a lot, though. You know, 
with tourists." 

"Yeah, why the hell did you take that job? You're smarter 
than that." 

Harley shrugged. "I hated corporate banking. And they 
hated me. It wasn't something I was suited for. It was just 
the first job I got after leaving Ole Miss, and I was too dumb 
to move up in the company, anyway." 

"Hah." Nana poked her with a finger. "You were always the 
smart one. You just got sick of it." 

"Maybe that too. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Lately 
I've been feeling pretty damn stupid." 

"Well you're not. You just need direction. Not like Darcy's 
two girls. Dumb as sock puppets, and with personalities to 
match. Ha!" She leaned forward in her rocker. "That Jung 
Bong is pitching. He's a leftie. Got a pretty good strikeout 

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record. Those Cardinals better watch out." Nana clicked off 
the TV. "Come on. Lunchtime. Let's go eat." 

After sitting in the main dining room where they were 
served baked chicken, cornbread dressing, and green beans, 
Nana filched some fresh fruit and they went back to her 
apartment. 

"Still got my own teeth," she said with a smile of smug 
satisfaction, and then bit into a pear. "So, how's it going with 
that hot cop you're sleeping with?" 

Accustomed to Nana's bluntness, Harley shook her head. 
"Not going at all right now." 

"Did you dump him?" 

"No, we're just taking some time off for a while." 

Nana looked at her shrewdly. "Right. It's all this murder 
crap, isn't it. Doesn't look too good for a cop's girlfriend to 
run around stumbling over corpses. Bet he dumped you, 
didn't he." 

"Don't try to sugarcoat it for me," Harley said wryly. 

"You don't need me to tell you what you already know." 
Nana waved a hand in the air. "It will sort itself out. You'll 
see." 

"Now you sound like Diva." 

"That girl has always been sharp. Isabel never could see it. 
Thought there was something wrong with her." Nana shook 
her head. "When Deirdre was just a little girl, I tried to tell 
Isabel that she had the sight, but Isabel would have none of 
it. Called it hocus pocus. I can't say I understand it myself, 
but my mother always seemed to know things before they 
happened, too. Spooky at times and downright scary at 

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others, but not to be dismissed. But then, Isabel always 
wanted things to be just right. It's not a bad trait, just 
limited. I don't think Isabel's ever quite forgiven me for telling 
Deirdre to be who she is instead of what someone else 
wanted her to be." 

Harley thought about Grandmother Eaton wanting her little 
girl to fit into a preconceived mold and Diva fighting against 
it, a nonconformist because she couldn't be anything else. No 
wonder Diva accepted whatever Harley wanted to do with 
such equanimity. She'd felt the sting of disapproval too often 
and didn't want to pass it along. 

"What did Grandmother Eaton want Diva to be?" Harley 
asked, sitting in a thickly padded chair across from her 
grandmother. 

"Isabel wanted both her girls to marry well. She'd married 
well, and Paul isn't a bad sort, even if he does stay gone too 
much. But Bel has always put too much stock in money and 
social position. Want a beer?" 

"A beer? Is it cold?" 

Nana laughed. "Yep. Don't have a washer and dryer here, 
so I have to keep it in this tiny little ice box. All those years of 
drinking it warm, now it tastes funny cold." 

Harley got Nana a beer from one of those small 
apartment-sized refrigerators that saved space but had plenty 
of room for whatever Nana wanted to put in it. Like beer. 

"Why did you drink your beer warm, anyway?" she asked 
Nana. 

"My mother lived with me, and I didn't want her to know I 
liked a beer now and then. Of course, she had to know. She 

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always knew things." Nana chuckled. "Still, it made me feel 
better, so I kept doing it even after she died." 

"So what's the reason Grandmother Eaton doesn't like 
Yogi? He doesn't have money?" 

"Part of it. Most of it was that Deirdre ran off to marry him 
even after she was told to have nothing to do with him. Felt 
like he'd stolen her daughter and brainwashed her into living 
in a cult. It was sixteen years before Deidre came back, and 
Bel never has quite gotten over it." 

Harley thought of her early years in California, moving 
from commune to commune, free in many ways, but 
constricted in ways that had meant little to Diva but a lot to 
her. She hadn't liked the looks they got in some towns, the 
derisive stares and comments when they went into stores. 
Hippies. Trash. Thieves. Gypsies. All those words had hurt. 
When Yogi had inherited his parents' house in Memphis, it 
was Harley's dream come true. Not that she wanted to be just 
like everyone else. She didn't. She liked her individuality, but 
nothing beat indoor plumbing. 

"I don't think Diva has gotten over it either," she said after 
a moment. "She doesn't say it, but I think she misses 
Grandmother Eaton." 

"Probably. It doesn't matter how much you disagree, 
there's no bond like that between a mother and daughter. 
Even when they don't want to admit it. Foolish stubbornness, 
I say. I never let Bel try that nonsense with me. Kenneth, 
neither, though sons are more likely to tell you just how they 
feel instead of sulk." 

"How is Uncle Ken?" 

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"Doing really well. Lives up north with the Yankees in 
Virginia." 

"Last time I heard, Virginia was below the Mason-Dixon 
line." 

Nana snorted. "Right. You ever been up there? They sound 
like Yankees and eat like Yankees. Can't even cook grits 
properly. I don't know what they do to their barbecue, but it's 
not right, either. Tastes awful. I liked their biscuits, though. 
Best I ever had, and that's saying a lot. It's a pretty place, 
too, some of the most beautiful mountains I've ever seen. 
Rivals the Smokies." 

Nana had been born in west Tennessee nine months after 
her father had returned from World War I. Her sturdy Irish 
ancestors had first settled in Memphis in the early 1800s, 
eventually moving out to the country right before the Civil 
War. Nana still called it the War of Northern Aggression, as 
her parents had done, and their parents before them. Stories 
passed down through generations told of the hard struggle 
during those war years, and Nana still had a big cardboard 
photograph of the large house the Jordans had once owned. 
It had four columns in front like Tara of Gone With the Wind 
fame, but wasn't as elegant. A dogtrot right down the center 
of the house provided cool air during the melting hot 
summers, with a door open at each end to allow in breezes, 
and big transoms over the top. Nana's great-grandparents 
and grandparents stood in front of the house with big smiles. 
Next to that framed photograph on her wall hung an after-
the-war photo that showed the solemn family group in front 
of a white picket fence. A small two-room house sat behind 

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the fence—once the overseer's cabin on their thirty thousand 
acre Tennessee estate, and after the war, home to three 
families. Hard times hit when taxes were raised so high only 
carpetbaggers could pay. As the story went, when the men 
who came home after the war saw what was left to them, 
they spent the rest of their days sitting on the front porch 
talking of how it'd have been if the South had won, while the 
women took in washing and worked gardens. But of course, 
that was from the women's point of view. The men no doubt 
had their own version. 

"No," Harley said, "I've never been to Virginia, but I can 
tell you a lot about California." 

"Those folks out there are a bit wild, aren't they? Just do 
what they want when they want. Must be the heat. Like here. 
Speaking of crazy, when do we start hunting down that idiot 
who's killing all the Elvises?" 

"We? Hunt down? Nana, I'm not leaving here, and we 
certainly aren't going anywhere." 

"We have to be back before seven-thirty," Nana said, 
getting up from her chair and going into her bedroom. Her 
voice drifted out. "They lock the doors then. I'm changing into 
my tennis shoes. Be ready in a minute." 

"Nana, we're staying here. Remember? It's safe here. 
There's a killer loose, and I'm on his short list." 

Appearing back in the doorway, Nana put both hands on 
her hips. "Don't be silly. There's nothing to be gained by 
being a sitting duck. Time to take the bull by the horns. No 
time like the present. And any other dumbass saying I can 

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think of that'll make you see it's stupid to be the rabbit when 
you can be the fox." 
Harley stared at her. Nana was a force to be reckoned 
with. But she'd met her match. 
* * * * 

"This is insane," Harley muttered under her breath as they 
waited at a red light. Nana sat in the passenger seat looking 
like a sweet little old lady, when she was really the wolf 
dressed up as Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother. She 
wore a flowery dress that hit midway between her knees and 
ankles, a string of pearls around her neck, a white hat with 
pink and blue flowers atop her head, and two hundred dollar 
running shoes on her feet. She held a white wicker purse with 
wooden handles on her lap. White gloves covered her hands. 

Dear Lord. It was the Terminator disguised as Opie's Aunt 
Bea. 

"Not at all insane," Nana said calmly. "I can protect you." 

Harley fought the urge to break into hysterical giggles. 
"Nana, you're barely five feet tall and weigh maybe eighty-
five pounds, though I grant you that your hearing seems to 
be excellent. You can't protect butter. How do you expect to 
protect me?" 

Opening her wicker purse, Nana pulled out a .38 Smith 
and Wesson with pearl handles. "Smitty here beats a fist fight 
every time." 

The light turned green, but Harley couldn't summon up the 
energy to press the gas pedal. She felt faint. Horns honked 
behind her, and finally she dredged up the will to move 

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forward, but the Toyota bucked and died when she didn't hit 
the clutch in time. More honking. She fumbled a moment, and 
then got everything moving right. 

"Do the supervisors at the home know you've got that?" 
she asked when they were a little bit down the road, her 
knuckles white on the steering wheel. "And put it away, 
please." 

"It's not a home. It's a retirement community. And to 
answer your question, no they don't and don't you dare tell 
them. I'll know when it's time to give it up, just like I knew 
when it was time to give up driving. Of course, I've had 
cataract surgery since then and I see better than ever now, 
so maybe I'll get me a car. Something snazzy." Nana slid the 
pistol back into her purse and snapped the latch. "I've been 
handling firearms since I was ten years old. Started out with 
a rifle, but that's too big to carry in my purse, of course." 

"Of course. So where do you keep your Uzi?" 

"Don't be a smartass. I used a .22 to hunt game back 
then. Buckshot makes it too hard to clean. Could pick a 
squirrel off a tree limb at twenty yards without thinking about 
it. Shot rabbits, possums, and raccoons, too, though I didn't 
much care for the meat off the last two. Deer meat now, 
that's something I miss. And sassafras tea. Grew wild around 
our house when I was young, and it smelled so sweet. They 
used to make root beer out of it, you know, though God only 
knows what they put in those drinks now. Chemicals, 
probably. Rot your innards out, not to think about what it 
does to your brain." 

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"Apparently, one of us in here has drunk too much root 
beer. Do you have any idea what can happen if we get 
stopped by the police and they find that gun in your purse?" 

"I do. Not a damn thing." Nana looked smug when Harley 
glanced at her to see if she was having some kind of stroke. 
"I've got a permit." 

That took Harley aback for only a second. "To carry 
concealed?" 

"Yep. You may not remember, but my second husband, Ed 
Sheridan—you never met him—was a deputy sheriff. Died of a 
heart attack when we were having our morning fun on the 
kitchen table. Try explaining to the medics why your dead 
husband's lying on the kitchen table with his bare ass up in 
the air and his ding-a-ling hard as a brick sometime. I've had 
better moments. Anyway, he got me the permit to carry 
concealed back when some yahoo was threatening to kill him 
and his family after Ed arrested him for armed robbery." 

Harley's head swam. This was more than she wanted to 
know. Yet it explained so much about her family tree. "Isn't 
there an age limit on those permits?" she asked weakly. 

"You'd think there'd be, wouldn't you? But not that I know 
about. I've still got Smitty and I've still got my permit. So 
don't worry. You're safe with me." 

That was subjective. Harley slid a nervous glance toward 
the white wicker purse. "Is that thing loaded?" 

"What the hell good would an unloaded pistol be to 
anyone?" 

"Uh hunh. Can you make sure it's pointed in the other 
direction? Just in case it goes off by accident." 

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Nana snorted. "The only guns that go off by accident are 
those carried by children or fools, and I'm neither of those. 
But if it makes you feel any better, I'll put my purse on the 
floor." 

"It does." 

"So, where are we going first?" Nana asked when her 
purse was safely between her sneakers. 

"I haven't thought that far yet." Truth was, she had, but 
that was before Lydia had been killed and she'd turned 
chicken. Cluck cluck. 

"I say we find out how all those Elvises got on buses that 
the killer was on. Couldn't be by coincidence." 

Nana could be really sharp. 

"The first two were sent postcards inviting them to a 
special TV interview. I imagine the last one was, too." Harley 
thought a moment. "I gave that information to Bobby, so I'm 
sure he's already checked up on it." 

"Bobby? That skinny Italian kid I used to see hanging 
around your house all the time?" Nana pronounced Italian as 
"Eye-talian." 

"That's the one. He's a detective now, and he isn't skinny 
anymore." 

"Still cute?" 

Harley thought a minute and nodded. "Most women think 
so." 

"Who knew there were so many hot cops in Memphis? I 
bought one of their calendars a while back, you know. Those 
six-pack abs and bulging biceps made me want to lick their 
photos." 

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"You're a dirty old broad." 

Nana smiled. "I know. It's always the quiet ones, isn't it?" 

"You've never been quiet." 

"But I do look like a sweet little old lady, and that fools 
people into thinking I am. Works every time." 

Harley braked to avoid hitting a Mercedes that cut in front 
of her. "I didn't know you could be so devious, Nana." 

"It's one of my best virtues. Don't let anyone tell you that 
life's fair and you should always play by the rules. You'll get 
your ass kicked if you do." 

"So what do you suggest?" 

"Make your own rules. Be fair, objective, kind, and as 
generous as you can afford to be. If someone tries to hurt 
you or yours in any way, take them down hard." 

"Good God. My Nana is really Dirty Harry." 

Nana only smiled. 

Maybe Nana still went by pioneer justice, but there were 
pesky little things like rules of conduct in the modern world 
that frowned on that sort of thing. Not that it wasn't 
tempting. There just had to be a compromise between the 
two. 

"I'll make a deal with you," Harley said. "You keep Smitty 
tucked away, and we'll make a stop or two just to check some 
things out." 

"Sounds good," Nana said with satisfaction. "Just let me 
know if you need Smitty." 

"I will." Harley rolled her eyes. Like that would ever 
happen. 

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"The library?" Nana demanded in disgust when Harley 
parked in front of the big library on Poplar Avenue. "This isn't 
detective stuff." 

"Sure it is. There're some things I have to look up on the 
Internet. You can go in the adult section and read dirty books 
while I do my work." 

Still disgruntled, Nana followed her inside, after their brief 
discussion about the wisdom of taking a loaded pistol into the 
library where children were had ended in the gun being 
locked safely in the Toyota's glove compartment. At least 
she'd won one battle with Nana. A red-letter day. 

It didn't take too long to find out what she needed to 
know—if an hour and a half wasn't too long. Tootsie could 
probably have found the information in less than ten minutes, 
but she didn't know how to hack into web sites like he did. 
Just about the time Nana turned rebellious and threatened to 
go into the music room and do a hootchy-kootchy dance to 
Ragtime Gal, Harley slid off the seat and said, "All right. I'm 
done. On to the next adventure." 

"If this is your idea of adventure," Nana muttered, "I'd be 
better off playing strip poker back in the dining room." 

"You frighten me, Nana." 

That seemed to please her and she smiled. To those who 
didn't know better, she could be an old darling, one of those 
elderly women that sang choir in church every Sunday 
morning, and baked cookies and knit sweaters for the 
homeless. Right down to her pretty lace collar beneath the 
string of pearls. No one would ever suspect Nana was Outlaw 
Annie in disguise. 

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"So who lives here?" Nana asked when they pulled up in 
front of a nice East Memphis home, a gray stone sixties 
modern with a red door and sharply angled roof. "The perp?" 

"A suspect. I see you keep up with Law and Order." 

"And CSI. I take turns watching one and taping one. So? Is 
this where the perp lives?" 

"Suspect. Maybe a suspect. Let's just say, a person of 
interest." 

"Ha!" Nana looked gleeful. "Give me your car keys a 
minute." 

"You're not thinking of driving, are you?" 

"Of course not. My license expired. Wouldn't want to break 
any laws." 

Harley handed her the keys, then immediately regretted it 
when Nana unlocked the glove compartment and took out her 
pistol. 

"Oh God. Put that thing away. We're not going to a shoot-
out. We're just going to talk to this guy a little bit." 

"You never know. Better safe than sorry. A penny earned 
is a penny saved—" She paused and frowned. "Wrong cliché. 
Well, you know what I mean." 

"I'm afraid I do. Look, Dirty Harry, put up the pistol. You're 
going to get us in trouble." 

Nana stuck the pistol into her wicker handbag and snapped 
it shut. "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush." 

"I'll keep that in mind when we go bird hunting. Put the 
gun back." 

"That wasn't the right cliché at all. Damn. Maybe my meds 
are wearing off." 

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Harley felt faint. This was insane. She should never have 
let Nana talk her into leaving the home. Now she was in a car 
in front of Claude Williams's house, stuck with a fully armed 
senior citizen off her medication. She smacked her forehead 
with her palm. What was I thinking? 

"Stop being so dramatic," Nana said calmly. "I'm all right. 
I just get a little confused at times. Nothing to worry about." 
Before Harley could grab her, she had the door open and one 
foot on the curb. "Come on. Let's go grill him." 

Ordinarily, now that she'd regained her senses, Harley 
would have insisted Nana get back in the car and would have 
taken her straight back to the home. But the red front door of 
Williams's house opened and out stepped Preston Hughes. Or 
a man who looked very much like the Preston Hughes in the 
Elvis competition photos she'd found on the Internet. Since he 
was dressed in jeans and a shirt instead of black leather, 
there was a chance she was wrong, but it certainly did look 
like him. Might as well forge ahead, hit two birds with the 
same stone. 

Lord. Now she was thinking in clichés like Nana. 

Williams looked surprised to see her again, and Hughes 
looked angry, but that could have been because of the 
conversation he'd been having with Williams. They'd seemed 
to be arguing. 

"I hope I'm not intruding, Mr. Williams," she said as 
pleasantly as possible, "but I had a few more questions I 
wanted to ask you on behalf of the company. This is my 
great-grandmother, Mrs. McMullen." 

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That left the way open for Williams to introduce Hughes, 
which he did. Just as Harley had hoped, her suspicion was 
confirmed. Nana, the very image of Southern gentility and 
grace, smiled sweetly and bobbed her head just like an old 
darling would do. The fraud. 

"So very nice to meet you, Mr. Williams. My granddaughter 
has told me all about you." 

Since she'd done nothing of the kind, Harley stepped in 
quickly. "I was very impressed with your photos I saw on the 
website—wait a moment. Preston Hughes? Aren't you always 
one of the winners in the big Elvis competition every year?" 

Hughes nodded briefly. "Never the big winner. Not yet. I'd 
hoped to correct that this year." The look he gave Williams 
was scorching. 

Williams began to sweat, beads popping up on his 
forehead and bald crown. "As I've explained to Mr. Hughes, I 
have nothing to do with event rules and regulations. Those 
are left up to the contest organizers." 

"Regardless of long friendships," Hughes said softly, and 
Williams looked distressed. 

Interesting. Harley ruled out Williams as a definite suspect, 
but now her suspicion of Hughes was stronger than ever. He 
looked absolutely furious. The tension was so thick between 
the men that Harley poised to grab Nana and run before fists 
started flying. And before Nana showed them Smitty. 

"Good friendships are like spring flowers," Nana piped up 
brightly, "needing lots of rain to bloom." 

Both men looked at her. Harley wondered how many pills 
she'd missed. 

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Reaching out, Nana patted Hughes on the arm. "You'll see, 
young man. There's not much in this world that matters more 
than family and good friends. A quarrel shouldn't change 
that." 

Hughes took a deep breath, and some of his tension visibly 
eased. "Maybe you're right. It's just that this is something 
I've wanted for so long that I've been willing to do almost 
anything to get it. I won't give up until I win." 

He gave a short nod at Harley and Nana, a glance at 
Williams, and walked to his car in the driveway. 

When they were back in her car, Harley looked at Nana. 
"You were great. A reminder of their friendship kept them 
from fighting. That was really sweet." 

Nana snorted. "It was all crap. But whatever works, I 
always say." 

"An excellent philosophy." Harley started the car and 
headed for Whispering Pines. She'd had just about all the fun 
she could handle today. 

Williams lived on Shady Grove not far from the Racquet 
Club. The neighborhood had big, older homes, stately trees, 
and an air of comfortable if not lavish living. It wasn't too far 
from the Eaton home. Harley took Mendenhall south. The 
street turned into Mt. Moriah when it crossed Poplar, 
confusing new residents and even longtime Memphians not 
used to the area. The Half-Shell seafood restaurant was on 
the southeast corner, not far from a health food store and cat 
rescue. The Tobacco Shop on the southwest side sold 
newspapers from all over America and across the Atlantic, 
and a few from across the Pacific. 

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"Where are we going?" Nana asked when they got close to 
Park Avenue. "I feel like some pizza." 

Damn. "I thought you'd be tired by now so I'm taking you 
back to the home." 

"Retirement community. I'm retired, not crazy, dammit." 

"Sorry. Retirement community. Don't they serve pizza at 
Whispering Pines? We can order takeout." 

"Got my mouth all set for Memphis City Pizza. It's on the 
corner of Park across from the Eastgate Shopping Center. 
Isabel took me there once." 

While Harley was trying to imagine Grandmother Eaton 
sitting in a pizza place with a pitcher of beer and a pepperoni 
slice, something bumped them from the rear. It knocked her 
little Toyota forward and she barely missed hitting the car in 
front of her. 

"What the hell?" She looked over at her grandmother. 
"Nana, are you all right?" 

"Of course I'm all right. That's what seat belts are for." 

Harley started to pull the brake and turn off the ignition to 
get out and assess the damage and maybe swap licenses with 
whoever hit her, when another bump shoved them forward so 
that she hit the car in front. Dammit! She looked in the 
rearview mirror. The car behind was black and had tinted 
windows, so she couldn't see who was inside. Weren't tinted 
windows supposed to be illegal now? 

Before she had time to dwell on that, another hard hit 
from behind threatened to make a sandwich out of her car, 
and wouldn't do too much for the passengers inside, either. 

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Nana, holding on to the dash with both hands, looked at 
her. "That guy's deliberately hitting us!" 

"I think you're right." Harley focused on getting away. Her 
heart thudded so hard against her ribs it hurt. 

"Where are the cops when you need them?" Nana 
grumbled. "Probably at that doughnut shop we just passed." 

Harley only half-listened. The black car revved its engine 
and she braced for another hit. They were hemmed in by 
traffic on both sides. The vehicle in front was a big Ford truck 
that had a trailer hitch sticking out on the back. If the cars in 
the turning lane moved, she could make a dash for the tire 
place on the corner. Fortunately, she already had plenty of 
experience dodging cars on Poplar. 

Then a loud explosion blew out her back windshield. 
Instinct made her duck and grab for Nana to push her down 
in the seat. The Toyota engine whined. 

"Dammit, you're messing up my aim," Nana said crossly, 
and Harley looked at her. She had her gun in both hands and 
was taking aim again. 

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, give me that!" Harley grabbed 
for the weapon just as it went off again. This time, the bullet 
took out their attacker's windshield. It was safety glass and 
cracked all the way across. It looked like crushed ice and 
when she looked, she couldn't make out the driver at all. 

Other drivers honked, yelled, ran red lights and up on 
curbs, and the black car took off around a Taurus and headed 
down Park. Even if she'd wanted to follow him with Nana in 
the car holding a pistol that had probably belonged to Al 

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Capone, her car bucked, groaned, and died. It was probably 
best. What would she do if she caught him? 

Nana looked over at her. "If he didn't have that tinted 
glass, I'd have got him. I can shoot a squirrel at twenty 
yards." 

"I've heard that." 

Nana looked pleased. 

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Chapter Eleven 

Something kept tickling her nose. She couldn't breathe. A 
steady weight pressed down on her chest, and Harley came 
straight up in the bed gasping for air and ready to fight her 
assailant. 

Sam, dislodged and disgruntled, held on to the quilt with 
claws firmly attached. He yowled a complaint that registered 
in Harley's sleep-fogged brain and she peered at him blearily. 
"Don't you ever sleep late?" 

Apparently not. Sam leaped to the floor and stalked toward 
the closed door, then looked at her over his shoulder and 
gave another loud yowl. Food and doody time. Yawning, 
Harley gave in and staggered into Nana's small kitchenette 
that consisted of a refrigerator, microwave, and one of those 
heavy-duty coffee pots that looked like it came from the 
fifties. After letting Sam out onto the screened porch and 
feeding him, she started toward the coffee pot, determined to 
figure out how to work it. 

To her surprise—and relief—it was plugged in and the 
coffee brewed. Nice. That meant Nana was already up. So 
where was she? There was no sign of her in any of the rooms. 
It wasn't that big of a place, just two bedrooms, a large bath, 
the living room and kitchenette. Maybe she was already out 
visiting or having an early breakfast. Or doing a hit for the 
Mob. Yesterday hadn't been that much fun. Especially when 
Bobby showed up. Apparently he'd heard about it on his 
police radio and decided to add to the joy. At least they 

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hadn't been charged with anything, though Nana was pretty 
upset that they'd taken her gun. There was an ordinance 
against firing weapons in the city limits it seemed, though 
that didn't seem to slow the gang-bangers much. Nana said it 
was age discrimination and she was going to sue. 

Harley had gone to bed with a headache and the intention 
of sleeping until noon. 

But it was nice outside this early, she had to admit when 
she took a cup of coffee out onto the porch to sit in one of the 
lounge chairs and watch Sam watch birds. The tip of his tail 
twitched in perfect harmony with the odd little noises he 
made. A lovely, fresh breeze came in through the screens, 
smelling of recently mowed grass. Leaning back, she just 
enjoyed the fragrant coffee and tranquility for a moment, 
letting her mind drift. 

As it seemed to do lately, it eventually drifted toward 
death and murder. She'd become a ghoul. How interesting. 
She wondered exactly when this change in her personality 
had shifted from just being a little out of synch to being 
completely bizarre. It must have been sudden. Maybe finding 
Mrs. Trumble dead in her own dining room had put her over 
the edge. Whatever it was, she had no idea how to get rid of 
it. Might as well do the best she could until it went away. 

So she began to try to piece together the fragments of 
information into some kind of pattern. It was like constructing 
the quilt on Nana's guestroom bed. Sooner or later, all those 
random scraps of details should come together into 
something recognizable. 

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For the moment, Williams was at the bottom of her 
suspect list. Hughes was at the top. He had motive, means, 
and opportunity. He was furious about being disqualified from 
being an Elvis competitor this year, he'd know the other 
contestants and be able to dress up and blend in with them, 
and he lived and worked in Memphis so would have 
opportunity. Also, he fit pretty closely with the descriptions 
from tourists and drivers, and even though she couldn't say 
with certainty it was him, he could be the extra Elvis on her 
van, too. And the guy who'd hit her car yesterday. 

There was something else, a vague memory of something 
familiar ... it had importance, she just knew, but what was it? 
Someone had said something familiar that passed her at the 
time, but triggered a warning bell. Damn. What was it? 

"You look lost in thought," Nana said, opening the door 
onto the porch and stepping out. "Unfamiliar territory?" 

"Well, aren't you just precious this morning." Harley tilted 
her head back to look at Nana. "What is that getup you're 
wearing?" 

"My jogging outfit. Like it?" 

Nana turned like a runway model, holding out the edge of 
her flowered skirt that was so transparent no one could miss 
the flesh-colored leotards beneath, nor what looked like knee-
length drawers. A light gray sweatshirt, rolled down white 
tube socks, a sweatband around her forehead, and expensive 
running shoes completed the picture. 

"It's adorable. Why not wear jogging pants, though?" 

"A lady of my age just doesn't do that. It isn't seemly." 

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Harley looked at her. Apparently, wearing flesh-colored 
leotards and carrying a loaded .38 was considered seemly. 
She shook her head. "I'd hate to see the men's dress code 
here." 

"Don't be a smartass." Nana sat in the chair next to 
Harley. "Breakfast is at seven-thirty. Want to join us?" 

"Isn't there a late breakfast?" 

"Only for the slugs. You're young. Deal with it. We've got 
work to do." 

Oh no. Harley narrowed her eyes. "What are you talking 
about?" 

"Well, you've focused on Hughes as your prime suspect, 
haven't you? Don't deny it. I saw that look in your eyes 
yesterday when he said winning was something he'd wanted 
for so long, he'd be willing to do almost anything to get it. 
Rang a bell for you, didn't it?" 

"Damn. How did you do that? I've been sitting here trying 
to think of what it was that's been bothering me, and you just 
spit it out. That's it, though. You're right. The Elvis in the taxi 
at the concert said almost the same exact thing to the taxi 
driver. I thought I recognized him, so it must have been 
Hughes. He was the one on my van. I'm certain of it. Almost 
certain. And he was probably the one who tried to shove us 
off the road yesterday." 

Nana nodded in satisfaction. "So chickie, let's go!" 

* * * * 

"This wasn't what I had in mind," Nana said resentfully 
when they stood in the West Precinct waiting on Bobby to get 

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off the phone. "I thought we'd do a little snooping on our 

own." 

"That leads to scary things. It's better this way. Trust me." 

Nana snorted. "And here I thought you had pioneer spirit. 
You're taking the easy way out." 

"I prefer to think of it as the safe way out. It's a little 
unnerving being held hostage at gunpoint." 

"What's wrong with being unnerved a time or two? Good 
for the blood. Gets it running." 

Before Harley could give her opinion on running blood and 
all the reasons being unnerved couldn't possibly be good for a 
person, Bobby hung up the phone and beckoned for them. 

Nana, looking like an old darling again in a print dress with 
lace collar, her hose rolled up and held by garters barely 
visible beneath the long skirt, and wearing plain, sensible 
shoes on her feet, took the first chair and settled into it with 
her white wicker purse in her lap. Minus Smitty. 

"Did you find out anything about the car yesterday?" 
Harley asked Bobby when she sat down in the chair opposite 
his desk. "Did anyone get his plate number?" 

"The car didn't have any plates. We're looking for it." He 
looked over at Nana. "And how are you today, Mrs. 
McMullen?" he asked in a loud voice. 

"Pretty pissed off at the moment. And it was my late 
husband who was deaf, not me. Do I get my gun back 
today?" 

"I'm afraid not. We're checking things out," Bobby said in a 
more normal tone. 

"My lawyer says you can't keep it. I have a permit." 

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"Then I'm sure it'll be given back to you soon." 

"So why haven't you caught this killer yet? Seems to me 
you should be glad of a little help instead of telling my 
granddaughter to stay out of it." 

Bobby blinked. Harley smiled. Apparently he'd forgotten 
about Nana McMullen and how blunt she could be. 

Bobby leaned forward and said, "This is a police matter, 
Mrs. McMullen. While we're always glad of citizens' 
cooperation and information, any kind of interference in an 
ongoing investigation is discouraged." 

"Good Lord. Do you always talk like you've got a stick up 
your ass? I remember you, you know. You were a skinny little 
Italian kid with a swagger and more tricks than David 
Copperfield. And I remember that Fourth of July picnic when 
you used a toy bow and arrow to shoot a string of lit 
firecrackers up into the trees so that a flock of nesting 
blackbirds flew out and crapped all over our barbecue, too. 
Then there was a time you put a blacksnake in the Anderson's 
swimming pool, and the time—" 

"Yes, you've got an excellent memory, it seems," Bobby 
interrupted while scowling at the officer sitting behind the 
next desk who was laughing so hard he kept snorting through 
his nose. "But we have rules. And laws. They're designed to 
keep Memphis citizens safe. If everyone went around 
investigating carjackings, robberies, and murders, there'd be 
chaos. And mayhem. It needs to be left to the police." 

Nana looked like she was ready to say something 
guaranteed to put Bobby in a bad mood, so Harley quickly 

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said, "I have information about Preston Hughes that might 
interest you." 

Bobby's expression immediately changed to his cop-face. 
Harley couldn't tell if the name was familiar to him or not. 
"What information?" he asked. 

She gave him the yellow sheet of legal paper with her pros 
and cons written on it. She'd updated it to include Hughes's 
comments to the taxi driver. He scanned it and nodded. 
"Thanks." 

Harley stared at him. "Thanks? That's it?" 

"What, you expected flowers?" 

"Something more flowery, maybe. Like, This will help, or 
Thanks for taking the time to make sure I got this 
information." 

Bobby stood up. All she ever saw him in these days were 
suits, when once he'd been the tee shirt and scruffy Levi's 
type. Oddly enough, both styles looked good on him. Not only 
could she understand her friend Cami's attraction to him, 
occasionally she remembered their brief fling with a fond 
smile. Not today, however. Today, she remembered with 
satisfaction the time she'd beat him to a pulp when she was 
fifteen because he'd pushed Eric down. No one shoved her 
little brother around except her. That was the cardinal rule. Of 
course, if she'd known Mr. Baroni would give Bobby another 
whipping when he got home, maybe she wouldn't have done 
it. That didn't seem quite fair. 

Bobby said, "Okay, thanks for taking the time to make 
sure I got this information. If it leads to an arrest, I'll make 
sure you get the Crimestoppers cash. Is that better?" 

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Feeling slightly guilty when she recalled causing Bobby 
trouble a long time ago, she said, "Much better. Only give the 
cash to Nana. She's really the one who remembered what he 
said." 

Nana beamed. "Hot damn!" 

The greedy gleam in Nana's eyes promised a trip to the 
casinos in her future, and Harley just smiled. Sometimes 
things worked out fairly well. 

"So, you really think Hughes is the one?" Nana asked on 
their way home, and Harley gave a shrug. 

"He's the most likely one. All the murders except Lydia's 
are related to the competition." 

Nana was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "So I wonder 
why he killed Lydia?" 

"She must have known him. Seen him on the buses 
before, or maybe even at one of the big competitions." 

"And that's why he tried to kill you and run us off the 
road?" 

Harley shivered. "Must be." 

"That doesn't make sense." 

"What do you mean?" 

Nana turned in the seat as much as the seat belt would 
allow and looked at her. "There are all those tourists on these 
buses, yet the only two witnesses the killer seems worried 
about is the two of you. Why is that?" 

"I don't know. Probably because he thinks we paid more 
attention and can identify him. Poor Lydia." 

"Wasn't there a third bus driver? What about her?" 

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"The police are keeping an eye on her, and she has a big 
strong husband hanging around the house. I imagine the 
killer's not as anxious to tackle all that." 

Nana went quiet for a moment. Then she shook her head. 
"Still, it doesn't quite add up. I'll think about it a while, then 
let you know what it is." 

"So now you're not so sure it's Hughes?" 

"He seemed right, but now I've been thinking about baking 
ingredients." 

"Baking ingredients?" Harley wondered if Nana's meds had 
stopped working again. 

"Yep, like in a cake. A little too much of this, not enough of 
that, and you've got a cake as flat as a fritter and hard as a 
brick. I'm wondering if Hughes is a fritter." 

"You're just worried you won't get your Crimestoppers 
cash." 

"Maybe. It sure would come in handy at the casino." 

Nana seemed sad about that, so Harley changed the 
subject to Aunt Darcy and her girls, since that always gave 
her something to talk about. 

When they got back to Whispering Pines, Nana insisted 
upon introducing Harley to her friends and acquaintances. 
There were quite a few of them. Nana obviously had a full 
social schedule. Jogging around the indoor track in the 
mornings, playing cards or shuffleboard, a swim in the indoor 
pool, trips in the Whispering Pines vans to the local shopping 
malls, movies, doctor appointments, and down to the Tunica 
casinos, were just a few of the daily activities. Plus three 

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meals a day served in the dining room or taken to their own 
apartments. Not a bad life. Old age obviously had its perks. 

When Harley mentioned that, Nana agreed. "Definitely. 
Not as expensive as you might think, either. Though drawing 
pensions from three dead husbands helps out a lot." 

Holding glasses of iced tea, they sat on the screened porch 
with Sam. Harley lay in the lounge chair, while Nana sat in 
her favorite wicker rocker with fat cushions. Sam was glued 
to window screens watching the birds. He'd hardly touched 
his food. Apparently, there were some things he liked better 
than flaked tuna bits in sauce. 

"Of course," Nana added reflectively, "it took me a long 
time to get here. And it wasn't always fun. Not that I minded 
the bad times so much. Made the good ones that much 
better." 

"Were there ever times you wondered if the bad 
outweighed the good?" 

"Never. Not to say there weren't those times when I'd be 
thinking the good better hurry up and come along before I 
got too squirrelly, but it eventually did. Always does. You just 
have to recognize it when it gets there. A lot of folks I've 
known are so busy whining about how unfair life has been 
that they never even see all the good things they've got. I 
might feel sorry for them if it didn't make me so blamed 
impatient. Foolishness." 

Harley thought about that. She wondered if Nana was 
talking about Grandmother Eaton. Or maybe Darcy's 
daughters, Madelyn and Amanda. 

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"One of the things I learned," Nana said, "is if you're going 
to let past heartbreaks and disappointments ruin your 
present, you're not going to have a future that's worth spit." 

"You're a wise woman, Nana." 
"Yeah? Tell that to my stock broker. But then, he wanted 
me to invest in Enron." 
* * * * 

"So why aren't you wearing a dress?" Nana looked Tootsie 
up and down. "Harley tells me you're prettier than most 
women she's ever known." 

Tootsie smiled. "I knew I couldn't outshine you, so I didn't 
even try." 

"Bullshit," Nana said, but looked pleased. 

Since Nana had a poker game waiting on her in the 
recreation hall, Harley and Tootsie went out onto the 
community's covered front porch to sit in the big wooden 
rockers. 

"How's hard time at the home going?" Tootsie asked with a 
grin. 

"Better than I expected. Although I've discovered that 
people in their eighties are far too frisky for me. Jogging, 
cards, shuffleboard, swimming—I can't keep up with them. 
I'm beginning to think they're really the Undead who never 
have to sleep. I'm exhausted." 

"My grandmother was like that until the last few years of 
her life. No one can say she didn't know how to live. I still 
miss her." 

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Harley nodded sympathetically. Tootsie's grandmother had 
died several years before and left him a modest inheritance 
and a house in Midtown. Harley hadn't known him then, and 
he'd only mentioned her a few times, always with great 
affection. 

"How's business?" Harley asked, even though she already 
knew. 

"Down by forty percent." Tootsie looked glum. "Even with 
security guards on every van—and your friend Bubba gave us 
a great deal, thanks—we don't have nearly what we should 
this time of year." 

"Look, I know you said you'd pay me even when I wasn't 
there, but don't. I don't need it. I still have money in savings 
since I decided that a decadent trip to the Caribbean isn't 
wise right now. See? And Diva thinks I never listen to her." 

Tootsie laughed. "You don't. Not when you should, 
anyway. So, has she had any vibes on this thing? Who the 
killer might be? Why he's only doing this on our vans?" 

"Go see her. If she can tell you anything, she will. Just 
keep in mind it's not like Ask Jeeves or Google. You might not 
get the answer you want, or even at all." 

"Then it's just like Ask Jeeves or Google." Tootsie sat 
thoughtfully for a moment. "You know, I think that's a very 
good idea. Will you call and ask her when would be a good 
time?" 

"Yep. And even better, I'll go with you. Since we're both 
involved, she might get some really good vibes." 

It ended up that Tootsie, Harley, and Nana all went to see 
Diva. A nice afternoon outing to visit your family psychic. 

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Only recently had Diva started allowing people to come to her 
home for a reading, and only people recommended by 
someone she knew. Usually, her tarot card readings were 
done at the monthly flea market. She said too many readings 
drained her of energy and bruised her chi, or something like 
that. As many years as she'd been listening to it, Harley could 
never keep all those things straight. Mantra, Tantric, chakra, 
chi, all blended together in a litany of inexplicable terms that 
she never let register. That was Diva's thing, not hers—a 
disappointment to her mother and, she suspected, a relief to 
her father. 

Diva's ecological statement was in full bloom, leggy weeds 
and trailing vincas straggling over the sidewalk and along the 
fence in front. It could have looked like someone had not 
taken the time to mow, but somehow, the pretty wildflowers 
looked more like a meadow, albeit one enclosed by concrete 
and unpainted pickets. Wind chimes hung on the porch 
stretching across the front of the house and tinkled in a light 
breeze, a welcoming sound. White concrete pillars stood 
sentinel on each side of the three steps up to the porch where 
Diva waited in a ladder-back chair painted with astrology 
signs, suns, moons, stars, and the planets. A similar chair 
stood across a small table draped with heavy tapestry cloth in 
muted jewel tones. Impressive. The paintings on the chairs 
were no doubt Eric's work. He was really talented when he 
wasn't being a total slug. 

"No sign with a big red palm in the window?" Harley 
teased, and her mother smiled. 

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"Not yet. I've always thought those were tacky anyway. 
Hello, Nana. It's been a while since I've seen you." 

As Diva got up to hug her grandmother, Harley noticed the 
glass globe in the center of the table. How nice. She'd bought 
that for her mother from Aunt Darcy's design shop, receiving 
the usual family discount of five percent. It hadn't done much 
for the hefty price tag, but the gift had pleased Diva 
enormously when Harley gave it to her. 

Harley introduced Tootsie to Diva, and they shook hands. 
Her mother held his a little longer than necessary. She looked 
deeply into his eyes, one of those steady gazes that had 
always paralyzed Harley since childhood. It was like Diva saw 
all the soul's secrets, though she said that wasn't true at all. 

"Hello, Thomas," Diva said, even though Harley had 
introduced him as Tootsie. "You're very welcome here." 

Releasing his hand at last, she motioned for him to sit 
down across from her. Harley took Nana by the arm and 
suggested they go inside, but Tootsie looked up and said, 
"No, I want you to stay. You need to hear this, too, and like 
you said, both of us together may help." 

Diva smiled. Picking up the tarot cards, she began 
shuffling them, then laying them out in what Harley 
recognized as some kind of Celtic Cross spread. Without 
looking at the cards, Diva spoke softly, her eyes closed so she 
couldn't even see Tootsie. That was always spooky to Harley. 
She'd wondered more than once if her mother had somehow 
marked the cards, but always felt disloyal when she did. 

The first part of the reading sounded like a hundred others 
to Harley, with the chariot indicating a journey and swords 

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indicating business problems, and the wheel of fortune 
promising it would soon be behind him. Then she abandoned 
the cards altogether. 

In a husky voice that somehow sounded otherworldly, Diva 
said, "The past is following you, but it's not your past. You're 
caught in between. Elvis isn't dead, he's hiding. He finds you 
in the candlelight ... but it's not really you ... I can't quite 
see..." She opened her eyes abruptly. "It's gone. Impressions 
and images can be so confusing. Sometimes I don't know 
what they mean. Do you?" 

Tootsie shook his head. "Not all of them. The Elvis thing 
makes sense. The impersonator who's been killing the others 
has to be hiding. As for the past, I don't know what that 
would have to do with me if it's not my past." 

"Perhaps it will come to me. Often it does, in my dreams 
or just out of the blue," Diva said with a shake of her head. 
"It's not always convenient." 

"And sometimes it's just enough information to get you in 
trouble," Harley said, and her mother nodded. 

"That's true. There are times when things come to me so 
clearly, and then other times it's in a collage of images I can't 
interpret, because often they aren't what they seem to be." 

"Damn spooky," Nana said, "if a psychic doesn't even 
know what she sees." 

Diva laughed. "Nana, you're right, as usual." 

Nana smiled. 

"Wait a minute," Harley said. "When you tell me that it's 
up to me to figure out what it is I'm supposed to do, that's 
only because you can't figure it out?" Diva's serene smile 

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masked duplicity. Harley shook her head. "I've been suckered 

in, haven't I." 

"All your life," Diva said, and laughed again. 

"I'm crushed," said Harley, and flopped onto one of the 
porch chairs Yogi had purchased at a flea market and Eric had 
decorated with bright colors and designs. "But much wiser." 

All in all, it wasn't a bad day. Nana and Diva laughed and 
talked over herbal tea, while Tootsie and Harley helped Yogi 
construct one of his windmill contraptions to sell at the next 
flea market. It was elephant shaped, and the trunk and tail 
spun with the wind. Yogi had also done another Eiffel Tower 
windmill—miniature, of course, only about four feet tall—and 
some flamingos and other birds. The one Harley liked best 
was the Elvis windmill. It was his last one, since the others 
had sold out, and when the wind blew hard enough, Elvis 
gyrated and his guitar spun. In his way, Yogi was an artist. 
That must be where Eric got his talent, though he didn't use it 
the way he should. Painting purple Picasso style body parts 
on their lime green van didn't really count. It did make Vanna 
distinctive, however. The vehicle was recognized all over 
Memphis. 

When Eric wandered in, the house on Douglass was almost 
like a family reunion. Even Mrs. Shipley from across the street 
came over with one of her famous Karo pecan pies, and a Key 
Lime pie for Diva, her favorite. 

"You out to catch you a man, Sadie?" Nana asked when 
the pie was almost gone. 

Mrs. Shipley looked startled. "Lord, no. Why?" 

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"I've never seen so much daytime make-up on anyone not 
in vaudeville." 

Harley gulped, but Mrs. Shipley just laughed. 

"I'm just gilding the lily, Anna Mae, just gilding the lily." 

"Looks to me like you tried to drown it. My sister Mary 
Jean used to put all that crap on her face, too. I never quite 
got the hang of it. She said I'd do better not to even try." 

"She was probably right. Some people get along better 
with what the good Lord gave them, and some of us have to 
give it a little help." 

Harley refrained from pointing out to Mrs. Shipley that 
she'd given a lot more than a little help, and thankfully, so did 
Nana. Actually, it was one of Mrs. Shipley's better days. She 
must have mislaid the trowel she usually used to apply her 
make-up. Even her colors were subdued, or what passed for 
subdued with her. The green capri pants and long top she 
wore were more pastel than vivid, and she'd left her hair 
alone and not dyed it to match, though she did wear a bright 
green ribbon through the red curls atop her crown. 

Eric leaned close to Harley. "I can't decide if she looks like 
Christmas or something St. Patrick might have thrown up." 

Tootsie obviously heard and started laughing, and since 
Harley didn't want to explain to the others why they were 
amused, she said it was time to start back to Whispering 
Pines. 

"Before they lock me out," Nana said. "I turn into a 
pumpkin at seven-thirty." 

After a brief discussion with Mrs. Shipley about the 
amenities at Whispering Pines, Nana got into the front seat of 

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Tootsie's Acura and told him to see how fast the car would go 
on the way home. Fortunately, he didn't. 

Mr. Fraser, the director of Whispering Pines, came out 
from his office when they entered the front door, smiling. 
"Looks like you've had a big day, Mrs. McMullen," he said 
cheerfully. 

"Big enough. Now I'm ready for tonight's poker game. Kaching!" 


While Harley stared at Nana and wondered if she could get 
on some of the meds she had to be on, the director 
continued, "It was very nice of your granddaughter to provide 
entertainment, but I thought you'd have wanted to be here, 
too." 

Entertainment? Harley turned to look at him. "What 
entertainment?" 

"Why, the Elvis impersonator you sent to give us a show. 
He was unexpected—you really should discuss this with 
management first—but the guests loved him and he was a big 
hit. You should have seen the dining room. I thought Mr. 
Baker was going to snap his new hip out of joint." 

"Uh, why do you think I sent an Elvis here?" 

"Oh, because he said you had, and he left you something, 
too. Wait a moment and I'll get it for you." 

When the director returned with a postcard, Harley and 
Tootsie exchanged glances. It was exactly like the cards sent 
to Derek Wade and Leroy Jenkins. The only difference was on 
the back, where the invitation read: Soon. My time, my place, 
my choice. 

"Uh oh," Harley said, and Tootsie nodded. Uh oh, indeed. 

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Chapter Twelve 

"No fingerprints at all?" 

"Yes," Bobby said more patiently than usual, "the 
director's, yours, and Tootsie's" 

Sitting across from his desk, Harley slumped in the 
uncomfortable chair. "Bummer." 

Bobby cleared his throat. When she looked up, he had a 
worried expression. He said, "I knew this would happen. I 
should lock you in a cell for your own safety." 

"Harsh. I'm being stalked by a killer again and all you can 
say is 'I told you so?' Thanks." 

"That's not what I'm saying, Harley. Now he knows where 
you're staying. Maybe you should think about staying 
somewhere else." 

"That's what I told Nana. She says I'm safer there than 
anywhere else, but I don't want her to get hurt." 

"What? Thinking of someone besides yourself? I'm 
shocked." 

Harley narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't be an ass. You 
know I'm not like that." 

"I used to think so. Since you got this new hobby, I'm not 
so sure." 

"It's not a hobby. It's a curse. If you'd tell me who you 
suspect, maybe I'd be a lot safer. Have you thought of that?" 

"If you'd stay inside, you'd be a lot safer. Consider it. And 
I say that as a warning." 

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"You act like I'm the stalker, not the stalkee. I know 
there's a lot you're not telling me, and if you'd just stop 
treating me as the enemy, we could work together. Couldn't 
we?" 

"No. You're an accident waiting to happen. Maybe you 
don't mean to be, but you blunder around making things 
worse and being a total disaster. Stop it. Before you get 
yourself killed." 

"I'd love to stop 'being a total disaster,' but unfortunately, 
the killer isn't cooperating at all. It's not like I'm inviting all 
this, you know." 

Bobby leaned closer over his desk, his tone intent. "That's 
exactly what I mean. You never send trouble engraved 
invitations. It just finds you." 

"Other than recent events—which were totally unexpected 
and unwanted—name a time I invited trouble." 

"You had to ask. There was the time you and Cami skipped 
school and auditioned for roles in Hair at the Playhouse 
Theater. Sister Mary Rita fainted and hit her head when she 
found you totally naked on the stage." 

"That little rat Sherry Osborne had to go and tell her where 
we were, or she'd never have known. Besides, the actors in 
Hair were supposed to be naked. It was part of the play." 

Bobby shook his head. "Then there was the time you 
skipped school and fell in a drainage ditch trying to jump 
across it, and Sister Elizabeth found you wearing nothing but 
a borrowed towel and washing your clothes at the 
Laundromat." 

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"My early childhood encouraged a lack of inhibition. I'm 
much more civilized now," she said with as much dignity as 
she could muster. "But I get your point. You're just being 
very uncooperative." 

"I'm glad you noticed. Go away." 

"All right. Since we're still meandering down Memory Lane, 
I remember the time you taught your five-year-old sister 
Angela a new cheer for the Little League Football team, and 
she got up in front of everyone with her pom-poms and 
shouted, 'Two, four, six, eight, everyone likes to masturba—'" 

"What do you want, Harley?" Bobby cut in before she could 
finish, although she could hardly hear him over the detective 
at the next desk who was laughing so loud heads turned to 
look in their direction. 

She smiled. "Just a heads-up on any new info you can 
share without breaking any police rules." 

Bobby sighed. "Fine. Where can I reach you if I need you?" 

"My cell phone. But if you mean where do I intend to stay 
until I find another place, I'll be at Whispering Pines." 

"Maybe Nana McMullen is right. Maybe you're safer there 
than anywhere else. At least you're locked in after seven-
thirty at night." 

"I was thinking more along the line of others being locked 
out." 

Bobby stood up. "Keep your cell phone charged. Do you 
have any pepper spray?" 

"A brand new can of it. And an attack cat and a baseball 
bat. Nana believes in being well-prepared." She decided it'd 
be best not to remind him about Nana's .38. Bobby had a 

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tendency to get a little jumpy about some things, and he 
might jump to the conclusion Nana had more guns tucked 
away. 

"But you'll check out Preston Hughes?" she asked from the 
doorway, and he nodded. 

"We'll check him out. If it was him playing Elvis for the 
elderly yesterday, we'll know about it." 

She hoped he was right. Hughes hadn't looked at all 
friendly when he'd left Williams's house, and now he knew 
about Nana. Her imagination had conjured up all kinds of 
reasons for his visit to Whispering Pines, none of them 
pleasant. 

Nana, however, seemed unfazed. "Come on," she said 
when Harley flopped down on the couch after returning from 
the police station. "Get dressed. It's almost time to go." 

"Go where?" Harley opened one eye. Nana wore a striped 
dress with a belt and Peter Pan collar, white socks and tennis 
shoes, and instead of one of those flowery hats she favored, 
she had a Memphis Redbirds baseball cap atop her head. 
Sudden dread seized Harley. "A baseball game?" 

Nana was almost dancing with excitement. "Yep! Memphis 
Redbirds at AutoZone park. It's Seniors' Day or some kind of 
crap like that. We got free tickets. The van will be out front in 
a few minutes. Hurry up and get dressed. Wear something 
cooler than jeans and a tee shirt. I'd loan you one of my 
skirts if you weren't so much taller. Don't you have any 
shorts?" 

"I do, but the afternoon sun shining off my white legs 
would blind the outfielders. I'll just stay here." 

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"The hell you will. You need to relax. Safety in numbers. 
Now hurry up." 

"I don't qualify as a senior. Give my ticket to someone 
else." 

Harley might as well have been talking to a wall. Any 
argument with Nana usually ended in her grandmother's 
favor. 

Before Harley knew quite how it had happened, she sat in 
the third row of a crowded bus with thirty-odd seniors all 
singing Hinky, dinky, parley-voo at the top of their lungs. 
They all wore wrist bands like hunting dogs' collars, a way to 
track them if they got separated from the chaperones. Except 
for Harley. Maybe she could sneak away and fall into a beer 
keg at the concession stand. 

"Isn't this fun?" Nana yelled over the others, who'd begun 
singing Do Ya Think I'm Sexy? in quavering voices. Rod 
Stewart would be so proud. 

"A blast." 

The lie pleased Nana. She smiled and bobbed her head. 
Harley wasn't sure if she was more amazed by the fact the 
seniors knew all the words to a Rod Stewart song, or that she 
was the only one who wanted to take a nap. What happened 
to all that rest seniors were supposed to need? 

The new AutoZone baseball stadium at Third and Union 
replaced the old one out at the Memphis Fairgrounds where 
the Memphis Chicks had once played. A gigantic metal figure 
in a baseball uniform greeted visitors at the entrance, with his 
bat drawn back in a swing. The tiled courtyard had ticket 
stands and pots of flowers. Tempting smells of popcorn, 

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nachos, hot dogs and barbecue lured crowds to the 
concessions. Picnic tables covered by brightly colored metal 
canopies were bolted to concrete. A broad expanse of green 
grass for families with energetic kids looked over the outfield. 
Their comped seats were in a tier easily accessible by 
wheelchairs, the elderly, and vendors. 

"It's the bee's knees, isn't it?" one of the men observed. A 
small man shrunken by time and arthritis, he squinted at 
players warming up on the field. "Is Mickey Mantle playing 
today?" 

"Not today," an attendant replied with the tone of someone 
accustomed to questions from a different era. While all the 
elderly Whispering Pine residents wore electronic bracelets in 
case they got separated, accompanying attendants still 
hovered cautiously, like prison trustees watching over a 
senior chain gang. 

Harley stopped worrying and started to enjoy the day. It 
was sunny but with a cool enough breeze that she didn't get 
too hot in her tee shirt and jeans. The usual smells and 
sounds that went with a baseball game even prompted her to 
join in when the seniors yelled "Batter-batter-batter-batter!" 
at the other team. It didn't matter who was playing or who 
won, it was just relaxing. As much as she hated admitting it, 
Nana was right. This was fun. 

The mascot, a big giant redbird made of red and black felt 
and a few feathers, pranced along the edge of the field by the 
dugouts, waving at the fans up in the stands, and pretending 
to catch a foul ball. The HotShots cheerleaders dressed in red 
costumes danced energetically to Take Me Out to the 

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Ballgame, then segued into Walking in Memphis. Some of the 
seniors started to dance. 

Harley decided it was a good time to find the bathrooms. 
Nana declined to join her, saying she was just fine. She 
probably wore Depends under that striped dress. 

A lot of people roamed the wide corridors, going to the 
concession stands, bathrooms, and buying souvenirs. The line 
in the ladies' bathroom wasn't too long, and when Harley 
came out of the stall, she was the only one in there. That was 
highly unusual. Normally, the bathrooms had lines as long as 
the stadium. Now it was so quiet that sound echoed. The 
organ music had stopped and the voice of the announcer 
sounded muffled through all the concrete. She washed her 
hands and dried them, muttering about the forced air dryers 
that never really got hands dry like paper towels. It just made 
a lot of noise and blew out hot air, like some people she 
knew. 

When she glanced around, the Redbirds mascot came 
around the tiled corner. Up close, it loomed even larger than 
it looked down on the field. Who knew there was a woman 
inside that big costume? It had to be lighter than it looked. 
Most of those costumes were pretty heavy, what with all the 
wire and heavy fabric. "What's up, chick?" she couldn't help 
asking. The mascot just looked at her. "Okay, guess you get a 
lot of jokes when you're wearing that. Sorry." 

The stuffed yellow beak bobbed up and down. A really pale 
face could be glimpsed behind the mesh eye holes, eyeliner 
defining brown eyes. It had to be hot in that thing in the 
summertime. Harley felt uncomfortable. The mascot was 

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probably waiting for her to leave before getting out of the 
costume to go into one of the stalls. Not even the 
handicapped stall looked big enough for that redbird. Harley 
rubbed her hands under the blowing air and ignored the 
unfriendly fowl. 

The situation felt strangely out of kilter somehow. Like she 
was somewhere she wasn't meant to be. The dryer cut off 
and Harley gave her hands a final shake to get rid of any 
excess water. 

As she turned toward the exit, something grabbed her 
from behind. Huge hands circled her throat and squeezed 
tightly. Harley clawed at them frantically, but the more she 
tried to dislodge the grip, the tighter it got. Spots danced in 
front of her eyes, her ears rang, and the distinct smell of 
something almost sickly sweet stung her nose. She kicked at 
the sinks and tiled walls, managing to knock off one of the 
soap dispensers, then used leverage with her feet to throw 
her attacker off-balance. They both went down heavily to the 
tiled floor that smelled of disinfectant, and rolled so that the 
bird pinned her to the cold tiles. She jammed an elbow 
backward, aiming for the head, but hit something much 
softer. Bird legs flailed on each side of her and she heard a 
heavy grunt of pain. The grip slackened, but she was trapped 
under the weight of the costume. Felt and feathers blocked 
her nose and mouth, and a gagging sound came from 
somewhere. It might be her. It sounded like the bird was 
choking on its own feathers. 

Then, as abruptly as it began, the attack ended. Weight 
lifted, and Harley caught a glimpse of black shoes where bird 

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feet should be. Still sprawled on cold tiles, she heard a 
familiar voice shouting words no old darling should even 
know, much less say. The smell that accompanied those 
words burned the air. Sulfur? No. Mace. Nana. Thank God. 

Coughing, she sat up, almost eye-level with Nana's striped 
belt. 

"Are you all right?" Nana asked sharply, and Harley 
nodded. "Good. Get up. The bird's flown the coop, and we've 
got to catch that bastard!" 

Harley's throat was too bruised to argue, and she stumbled 
to her feet to follow Nana out the bathroom door, staggering 
a little. Orange cones at the entrance and exit explained why 
no one else had come in on them. The redbird ran in a 
lumbering gait like a drunken hippo, the costume shedding 
feathers and huge feet slapping concrete floors. 

"Stop that chicken!" Nana shouted, but people just turned 
to stare, either thinking it was some kind of joke or not 
comprehending. Harley didn't blame them. The redbird 
disappeared around a corner with Nana in hot pursuit and 
Harley lagging behind. 

When she caught up with her grandmother, Nana was 
standing in the middle of an empty corridor. She still had the 
can of Mace that had replaced Smitty in her hand. It'd been a 
good choice. There'd be no way to explain shooting the 
Memphis Redbird. 

"We lost her," Harley managed to say in a croak. "Let's 
talk to the security guards." 

"And tell them what? A giant chicken tried to choke my 
granddaughter?" 

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"Redbird." 

"Whatever. This just ticks me off." 

"I can tell." 

Nana looked at her. "You sure you're okay? You're kinda 
red-faced." 

"Lack of oxygen. I'm just fine." 

"How'd you let that bird get near enough to choke you?" 

"I didn't expect a woman to be inside the costume or to be 
a threat. Who knew?" 

Nana snorted. "That was no woman." 

"But ... she was in the ladies' bathroom." 

"And if I stand in a garage does that make me a car? I 
think lack of oxygen cost you a few brain cells, honey child. 
Come on. You need to sit down for a while." 

"Probably." She thought for a moment. "I think I got him 
in the giblets with my elbow." That made her feel better, and 
not quite as stupid. 

"How'd you know where I was?" Harley asked on their way 
to the security office. 

"I didn't. I saw the orange cones and figured there'd be no 
line in there, and then I saw you and that bird thrashing 
around. Damn good thing." 

Oh yeah. 

After they told the security guards what had happened and 
filled out a report, a chaperone from Whispering Pines arrived 
to escort them to the van. Those tracking devices apparently 
did the job. Just as they were leaving the stadium office, a 
police officer arrived. 

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"Hey, we just found the mascot tied up in a broom closet. 
He said someone knocked him out and stole the Redbird 
costume. We found the costume in the men's bathroom on 
level two." 

Nana and Harley exchanged glances. That explained the 
assault. And also how vulnerable she was anywhere she went. 
Damn. 

"Come on, Nana. We need to go." 

Outside the stadium, kids shrieked, people laughed, and 
teenagers with big boom boxes on their shoulders strolled 
slowly by. A carnival atmosphere. Two blocks over lay Beale 
Street, with nightclubs that played everything from blues to 
the heavy metal at the New Daisy Theater. Peabody Place, 
the fairly new three story mall with upscale shops, a movie 
theater, and the requisite Starbucks was only a block away, 
behind The Peabody Hotel, billed as the South's Grand Hotel. 
Everyone from Hollywood movie stars to presidents stayed in 
the hotel that dated back to 1866, even though it had moved 
its location in the early twentieth century. 

The driver had gone to the garage to bring the van and 
would park in the handicapped spot right in front. Traffic must 
have delayed him. Some of the seniors sat down on benches, 
but Harley, Nana and a few other Whispering Pines residents 
stood on the sidewalk in front of the stadium. It could be just 
any late summer afternoon in downtown Memphis. Having 
been almost choked to death, Harley had a new appreciation 
of the mundane. 

Cars inched forward on Union Avenue as the traffic light at 
Third Street changed. Harley watched a kid of about ten 

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break into a routine in front of the stadium, dancing to the 
beat of a big boom box, doing gymnastic tricks that looked 
too impossible for the human body to perform. His friend held 
out a hat for donations, moving quickly before the cops could 
show to break it up. He managed to collect quite a few bills 
and some change before his radar picked up an approaching 
officer, and he, the dancer, the boom box, and the hat full of 
money melted into the crowd. 

Smiling, Harley leaned forward to speak to Nana when 
something hard hit her between the shoulder blades. She 
lurched toward the street. Brakes screeched and a hot wind 
that stank of diesel fumes blew dust and grit in her face. 
Someone screamed. Harley grabbed at a thin shadow, barely 
managing to catch hold of a light pole before she ended up 
under a MATA bus. For a moment she just hung there, unable 
to move, blinking grit out of her eyes. If she flicked out her 
tongue like a frog, she could have licked a bug off the front of 
the bus. 

It took a moment to recover, but she swung back to the 
sidewalk and pried her hands free of the light pole. The bus 
driver yelled at her to watch what she was doing. As the 
diesel engine kicked into gear and the bus moved down 
Union, Harley took a deep breath of fumes and turned 
around. Nana stood frozen to the spot, her eyes big and 
mouth open wide. Only one other person seemed to have 
noticed her near death experience. 

Nana still stood with her mouth open, one hand lifted as if 
to drag her back from the curb. Right behind Nana, a man 
made strange motions with his hands. He had a white-painted 

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face, heavily black-lined eyes with two painted teardrops 

under his left eye, and a dark red mouth. 

Harley blinked. 

A mime? He wore tight black pants and ballet slippers, a 
pair of black suspenders over a white shirt, white gloves, and 
a black bowler hat. The dark red mouth curved into a smile, 
and he put his palms out like he was trapped in an invisible 
box. A strong, sickly-sweet scent replaced the lingering bus 
fumes in her lungs. It held a hint of Mace. She glared at him. 

"Did you just push ... wait. It was you!" 

The mime gave a quick bow, a tip of his hat, and then he 
skipped across Third Street in the direction of the river. 
Damn! Harley grabbed her grandmother's arm and pointed. 

"It's the redbird, the guy in the costume! I recognize his 
heavy aftershave and Mace." 

"Let's get him," Nana said immediately, and sprinted 
toward the corner. 

"Wait!" Harley looked around for one of the chaperones, 
but they were busy gathering the seniors from the stadium 
entrance and herding them toward the van that had finally 
arrived. Damn it! Nana had already crossed Third in hot 
pursuit. The light caught Harley and she had to stand on the 
curb and wait or be flattened like a pancake. She jogged 
impatiently from one foot to another. Just when she was 
ready to risk it anyway, the light changed and she bolted 
across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a car turning 
left on a red light. Idiot. 

By the time she got across Third, Nana and her prey had 
jaywalked across Union, cutting between the horse-drawn 

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carriages lined up at the curb and disappearing from sight. 
Afraid for her grandmother, Harley did the same, again 
narrowly missing being hit. Obviously, she took after Nana's 
side of the family. Insanity had probably landed more than a 
few of her ancestors in straitjackets. 

Out of breath by the time she got across Union without 
being run down, she took a chance and pushed into the door 
leading to the lobby of The Peabody. The gift shop lay to the 
left, the stairs leading to restaurants and another main door 
to the right. Unless the guy who'd tried to choke her had a 
room here, he'd probably just try for one of the exit doors. 

Nana was just going out the door onto Second Street when 
Harley made it up the short flight of stairs. How the hell could 
that old woman move so fast? Harley was fifty-odd years 
younger but had a stitch in her side already. 

"Nana! Wait a damn minute," she got out when she saw 
her great-grandmother pause at the corner on Union. 

"He's circling around, Harley. Get the lead out and come 
on!" 

"Why don't we just get a cop?" 

"Do you see one?" Nana asked over her shoulder, 
scurrying down the sidewalk with her white wicker purse held 
to her chest and her tennis shoes a blur on concrete. 

Harley finally caught up with her in front of the line of 
waiting horse carriages, and grabbed her arm, panting for 
breath. "Forget it. Let him ... go. I can't ... keep going." 

Nana gave her a disgusted look. "The younger generation 
couldn't hoe a row of beans. Get up in this thing. We'll catch 
him." 

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Bent over with her hands on her knees and trying to catch 
her breath, Harley didn't look up quickly enough. She 
immediately realized her mistake when she heard a horse 
snort. Alarmed, she was a little too late to stop disaster. 
There was nothing left to do but hop on when Nana clucked 
her tongue at the horse and started pulling the carriage out 
into traffic. Harley took a flying leap and landed on the 
running board. She clung desperately to the metal handles on 
each side to avoid the big wheels rapidly going faster. 

"Have you lost your mind?" she yelled, clinging to the side 
of the carriage as Nana gave the reins an expert slap across 
the gleaming brown rump of the horse. "We'll be hung for 
horse-stealing!" 

"They repealed that law. Shut up and get off the running 
board and in here with me. Look for him. He's headed down 
Union." 

Harley managed to pull herself up into the driver's seat 
beside Nana. She clutched at what would be a dashboard in a 
car and held tight with both hands as the horse broke into a 
brisk trot. "Do you know what you're doing?" 

"Little girl, I was driving a team of horses when I was ten." 

"While you were shooting squirrels out of trees, no doubt," 
Harley muttered, and closed her eyes when they nearly 
clipped a red Honda at the corner. 

"Don't be smart. Isn't that him walking down the street?" 

Harley opened her eyes. Tight black pants and soft 
slippers, suspenders, hat, white face, no feathers—yep, 
looked like the guy who still wore the interesting blend of Old 
Spice and Mace. "Yes," she got out, holding tightly to the 

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edge of the carriage. "Slow down! What are you going to do, 

run over a mime?" 

"If it'll help." 

The horse and carriage increased speed. The mime 
glanced over his shoulder and gave one of those fake, open-
mouthed looks of astonishment, but Harley didn't recognize 
him. He had on too much white face paint, and eyes defined 
with black lines helped disguise him. And he acted like it was 
all a damn game. He was enjoying it just a little too much. 

"Faster," she urged when he broke into a run, and Nana 
obliged. Rubber horseshoes made a heavy muffled clack 
against asphalt, and carriage wheels whined. Then the man 
cut through the overhang of the Radisson and down the street 
by the Greyhound bus station. Nana had no problem making 
the turn, and thankfully, neither did the horse or carriage. 
Now the mime was running, his feet slapping against concrete 
as they gained on him. 

"Stop, you asshole!" Harley yelled, and grabbed the whip 
stuck in some kind of holder on the front. Apparently, it was 
easier in theory to work one of those than it was in reality. It 
popped in the air, snaked back to wrap around her arm, 
startled the horse, and sent them racing headlong toward a 
parking lot fence straight ahead. It was like watching a car 
crash, knowing it was going to happen but unable to stop it. 
Harley flung an arm in front of Nana and braced for the 
impact. 

Just before they became one with the metal mesh, Nana 
managed to turn the horse. How she managed it, Harley had 
no idea. Those thin little arms had to be all steel. Tangled in 

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the whip and holding onto the edge of the carriage for dear 
life, she was no help to her grandmother at all. Damn, did 
they really hit horses with these things? It hurt. 

"There he goes," Nana hollered like a woman possessed, 
and Harley caught a glimpse of the mime turning the corner 
onto Fourth Street. Dear God. He was headed for Beale 
Street. He'd get lost in the crowd. 

"If he gets past Gayoso we've lost him," Harley yelled 
back. 

Nana sawed on the reins and the horse made the corner 
without clipping the curb. Much. A carriage wheel bumped 
over it and jolted Harley so that she nearly lost her grip on 
the metal rail along the front, and slammed her teeth down 
on the tip of her tongue. 

"Thit!" she yelped, but couldn't let go of anything to see if 
she had any tongue left. It'd just have to wait. 

By the time she got the whip untangled from her arm, 
they'd crossed Gayoso and Nana turned onto Beale Street. 
The killer mime was just ahead. Music throbbed, coming from 
open doors, a mix of rhythm and blues, rock, and heavy 
metal. The W.C. Handy House, a small structure moved there 
some years back by the tourist industry to honor the late 
blues legend, had a line out front. The street was blocked off 
to vehicles, and Nana barely missed one of the posts. A little 
farther down, the crowd got a lot heavier with tourists, street 
dancers, and drunks. Disaster loomed. 

"Never mind, Nana. Let him go," Harley said, lisping, "Juth 
let him go. He'th gone anyway." 

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"Damn," Nana said, and slowed the horse to a walk, then a 
halt. "Probably a good thing. I think I've got blisters on my 
palms. Uh oh. Looks like we're nabbed." 

Sirens blasted the air, and blue lights reflected off building 
windows. The whoop-whoop of police cruisers came from all 
directions. Nana's wrist bracelet beeped like a flock of 
roadrunners. Harley wondered if they'd let her wear a red or 
purple jumpsuit in jail instead of that awful orange color. It'd 
be so much more attractive at her trial and hanging. 

* * * * 

Nana was right. Horse theft was no longer a hanging 
offense. However, that didn't mean they weren't in trouble. 
Fortunately, Tootsie arranged bail and Nana's lawyer said he'd 
work it all out. Tootsie pulled up in front of the jail in his 
Acura as they came out. 

Waving a hand like getting arrested and held at 201 Poplar 
was an everyday affair, Nana said to her lawyer, "Harley 
didn't have anything to do with it. Like I told those 
hardheaded cops, she was just trying to keep me from 
getting hurt. I forgot to take my medicine and thought I was 
back on the farm as a young girl again, driving my mama to 
church on Sunday morning." 

Her attorney, a tall, thin man with shrewd eyes, looked at 
her and nodded. "An excellent defense, Mrs. McMullen. I'm 
sure the DA and I can come to some sort of agreement." 

"Good. That's what I pay you for." Nana turned to Harley 
and Tootsie. "It's late and I'm missing my poker game. Let's 
go." 

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On the way to Whispering Pines, Harley turned to look at 
Nana, who was stretched out on the back seat with her eyes 
closed, and said, "You're a complete fraud. I'm amazed you 
haven't led a life of crime." 

Unperturbed, Nana said, "What makes you think I 
haven't?" 

Harley rolled her eyes and turned back around. Tootsie 
was making funny noises in the back of his throat that 
sounded suspiciously like laughter. Harley was not amused. 

"It's been a horrible day. I've been attacked by a mime 
disguised as a giant bird—which the police were not 
interested in hearing, I might add—involved in a horse race 
against my will, then sat in a smelly cell with prostitutes and 
drunks. And no toilet. Believe me, after a day like that, a girl 
needs a toilet." 

"Quit complaining," came the voice from the back. "You're 
out now, aren't you? Kids today have no stamina. In my day, 
we plowed twenty rows at sunup, then dug potatoes, picked 
beans, and cooked lunch for a dozen people, all before noon." 

Harley refrained from pointing out the inaccuracy of Nana's 
claims. She just didn't have the energy. 

"Mr. Fraser promised he'd unlock the doors for us," Tootsie 
said after a few moments in which he managed to stop 
making those irritating noises. "He said he's rather concerned 
about the recent activities." 

"He's not alone." Harley drummed her fingers against the 
wood and leather of the dash. "I should find another place to 
go. Apparently, the killer knows where I am anyway. Bobby 

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thought it'd be safe for me there since they lock the doors at 
night, but now I just don't know." 

"You can come stay with me and Steve. We have a 
guestroom. Since he's a cop, it ought to be safe enough for 
you." 

"I'd have to bring Sam. Don't you have birds?" 

"Yeah. Steve got them last year. They're Red Lorries, 
sometimes known as Scarlet Lorries. Beautiful, loud, 
obnoxious, and entertaining. Believe me, they can handle 
Sam." 

"I'm not sure Sam could handle them. He's sensitive, you 
know." 

Tootsie laughed out loud. "I've met your cat, Harley. He's 
as sensitive as a brick." 

"He doesn't like loud noises. Seriously. He's been known to 
attack me for singing. It's not a good quality in an overnight 
guest." 

"We'd live through it. Think about it. The offer is good as 
long as you want it to be." 

That was the thing about good friends. No matter what the 
problem, they were there to help. "Thanks," she said, and he 
smiled. 

Once back at Whispering Pines, Mr. Fraser had one of the 
on-site nurses check out Nana to be sure she hadn't damaged 
anything with her adventure, then suggested she go to bed 
and rest. 

"Rest, hell. I'm missing my poker game. Besides, I rested 
on the way home." 

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With that, Nana was off to the recreation hall. Harley 
looked at a bemused Mr. Fraser. "I think Nana's reliving her 
teen years. Or the ones she never had. She's trying to make 
up for all she missed." 

"Well," he said wryly, "she's doing an excellent job of 
catching up." 

Harley promised Tootsie he'd get back his bail money as 
soon as she got to her checkbook and he waved her off, 
kissed her cheek, then left. Before his taillights were out of 
the gated driveway, Harley was in Nana's apartment and 
running bath water. The jailhouse stench had to go. 

Still out on the screened porch, Sam looked pretty irritated 
that his dinner was late and it was too dark to see birds at the 
feeder. 

"They're asleep anyway," she told him as she gave him 
more dry food with a scoop of wet tuna flakes in some kind of 
kitty sauce on top. "We're about to do the same." 

After her bath, she remembered she hadn't turned her cell 
phone back on, and dug it out of her backpack. How nice that 
it was still working. Keeping it chained to her waist or safe in 
her backpack helped prevent the monthly expense of 
replacing them. 

As expected, there were two messages from Bobby, one 
from Cami, and none from Morgan. The last message had 
Blocked Call on the Caller ID. She hesitated. A twinge in her 
belly told her to delete it without listening, but that wouldn't 
solve anything. 

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She took a deep breath and punched the buttons. It wasn't 
a big surprise to hear a strange voice that sounded disguised 
say, "My time, my place, my choice. Expect it. You're dead." 

Despite being exhausted, she lay awake a long time that 
night, with Sam curled up beside her and sleeping soundly. 
There were times it had to be good to be a cat. 

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Chapter Thirteen 

"Why me?" Harley looked at Bobby. They sat in Nana's 
living room. "I mean, this guy is after me as if I did 
something to him, when all I've done is drive the damn tour 
bus." 

"We've been through all that. I'll have the phone company 
do a trace. Here, take your phone. You'll probably need it." 
He looked up at her. "In spite of yesterday's stupidity, you're 
still safer here than anywhere else in Memphis unless we put 
you in a motel or hotel room, with a guard posted. 
Somewhere you can't involve an eighty-five year old woman 
in idiot schemes like stealing a horse." 

Harley opened her mouth to defend herself, then shut it. 
He would never believe that Nana had been the one to steal 
the horse and carriage. No point in even trying. 

"Right. I'll stay here, I guess. But he knows I'm here. He'll 
try again." 

"Not if you keep your ass here and don't go out." 

Harley frowned. "But how did he know I'd be at the ball 
game yesterday? It couldn't be just coincidence. And the day 
before, he came here as Elvis. I know it. You know it. What I 
don't know for sure is if it's Hughes or not. But it can't be 
anyone else. Can it?" 

"He's watching you. Maybe he has an accomplice, someone 
you wouldn't suspect?" 

"Unless it's the old geezer on the second floor who tried to 
look down my shirt the other day, no." 

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Bobby grinned. "You might find another boyfriend here if 
you try hard enough." 

"I'm not at a shopping mall for boyfriends, thank you. I 
thought this was an old folks' home but I think I've found the 
stars of Cocoon." Bobby looked blank so she explained, "You 
know, the movie where the old folks find aliens who share the 
secret of youth?" 

He rolled his eyes. "Just be careful. My offer of police 
protection still stands if you want it." 

"Bobby, what if I go home to my own apartment?" 

"I don't recommend it." He frowned. "You're not thinking 
of doing that, are you?" 

"Well, let me run something by you. No one can really give 
a decent description of the evil Elvis. Yesterday didn't help. 
First he was a giant bird, then he was a mime—stop laughing, 
dammit—it's not enough to describe him or be sure it's 
Hughes. If I go home, and you have men stationed around 
my apartment, he's bound to show up sooner or later." 

Bobby stopped laughing. "No. It's too risky. We had men 
posted outside Lydia's house, and look what happened to 
her." 

"I know." Harley shivered. "Her funeral's tomorrow. Maybe 
I should go, after all. If you have some cops pretend they're 
family members or friends, maybe he'll make his move then." 

"You're offering to be bait?" 

She nodded. "This guy's killed four people, and plans to 
make it five, if he can catch me. Nana had a good point when 
she said it's much better to be the fox instead of the rabbit." 

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After a moment, Bobby said, "Okay, attend the funeral. I'll 
set it up. But don't do anything on your own, you hear me? 
Just go to the funeral, do what you'd normally do, and let us 
take care of the rest. If you definitely recognize the guy who 
was in your van, signal." 

"And the signal should be?" 

"Switch your purse to your opposite shoulder." 

"I don't usually carry a purse. My backpack is much more 
efficient." 

"Then buy a purse. Or borrow one from your Nana. 
Someone will be watching." 

It sounded simple enough. 

Except for Tour Tyme employees who managed to attend, 
and Mr. Penney of course, there wasn't anyone in the chapel 
Harley recognized. Tootsie came, and Nana too. After the 
service, during which Harley learned that Lydia had graduated 
from college magna cum laude, they followed the hearse on 
the winding roads through the cemetery. Huge oaks shaded 
the quiet roads that wound through the grounds. Their cars 
passed a grotto built by a famous Italian sculptor a few 
decades ago. Inside the cave were carved depictions from the 
Bible, and glittering crystals studded the walls. Outside, a 
huge pond filled with fish spanned both sides of a small 
fieldstone footbridge. Flowers and balloons marked some of 
the graves they passed, and scattered mourners paid their 
respects. People often visited just to walk through the quiet 
grounds, though Harley had never understood that. Even with 
trellises, roses, stone benches made in Scotland, and the 

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gigantic waterfall and fountains at the entrance, it wasn't like 
they could talk to the residents. 

A green canopy had been erected over the gravesite to 
shade the family, and folding chairs covered in heavy twill 
lined one side of the casket which sat on the metal 
contraption that would lower it into the ground. Fake grass 
tactfully covered mounds of earth that would be pushed back 
over the grave once everyone left. A skirt of roses draped 
Lydia's coffin. 

Harley hated funerals. They weren't so much for the dead 
as for the living, a reminder that the person was gone. Diva 
said death was just a door into the next world, that nothing 
was ever really gone, not even flowers and trees. If that was 
true, Harley figured the next world had to be pretty crowded 
by now. 

When she bowed her head as the minister offered a 
prayer, Harley kept her eyes open and looked around at the 
mourners. It was a fairly large crowd. Lydia would be so 
pleased. Poor thing. It was really infuriating that someone 
had stolen her life. She'd never hurt anyone, just done her 
best with what she had. Mr. Penney probably felt guilty that 
he hadn't given in to her requests to work in the office, and 
he should. If he'd listened to her, she might be alive today. 

The brief service ended and Harley stepped back from the 
crowd with Tootsie and Nana to look around casually, as if 
searching for someone. The killer should be here. Hughes 
would want to come and gloat, try to disguise himself so he 
could feel powerful. But there was no one here who looked 
like him. She couldn't even tell which ones were the 

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undercover cops. Of course, the cops would recognize 
Hughes, too. After all, his picture was on the Elvis 
impersonator website, and they had a way of knowing that 
kind of thing even without her help. So why hadn't they 
already arrested him? They had to have collected enough 
evidence by now to make a case. Her identification would only 
be one more part of it. Bobby had always been careful about 
that kind of stuff, not wanting to falsely arrest a suspect until 
he had hard evidence. Even his arrest of Aunt Darcy had been 
more protective custody than an actual arraignment, and he'd 
turned out to be right about that. Maybe he just needed her 
to confirm what they already knew, and the more she thought 
about it, the more certain she became it'd been Hughes on 
her van for the first murder. All he had to do was show up 
today. 

Family mourners remained under the canopy, saying their 
last good-byes. Lester Penney got up and went to the casket 
for a moment. When he turned back around, his cheeks had 
tear tracks. It surprised Harley, and then she felt bad about 
being surprised. Just because he was a hard-ass at work 
didn't mean he had no emotions. Being an ogre had little to 
do with being an uncle, after all. And maybe he felt bad about 
making Lydia do something that frightened her. 

That was confirmed when Mr. Penney approached her and 
Tootsie. "Thank you for coming," he said, the ritual phrase at 
all funerals. "It means a lot to the family." 

After their sympathetic murmurs, he took a deep breath 
and said, "I should never have kept making her drive. I just 
... I just wanted her to learn the business from the ground 

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up, that's all." He made a helpless gesture with his hands out. 
"Lydia would have inherited my portion of it, you know. She 
was so smart. If she'd just believed in herself, had more 
confidence, I think she'd have done a wonderful job." 

Harley said, "I always thought you'd bring your son into 
the business." 

Mr. Penney's mouth tightened and his bushy caterpillar 
eyebrows lowered in a scowl. "No. I wouldn't. He has no 
desire to work with me anyway." 

With that, Mr. Penney turned around and walked away, 
and Nana said, "Uh oh. I smell a family feud." 

"Hush, Nana," Harley said. 

Nana just smiled. 

Tootsie said, "I'll explain later. Hey. Isn't that Hughes over 
there?" 

Harley's heart skipped a beat and she turned in the 
direction of Tootsie's gaze. Hughes had come. He hadn't been 
able to resist. Did the undercover guys see him? She fumbled 
at the strap of her borrowed purse and then paused. 
Something wasn't right. He looked different. Maybe the dark 
silk suit instead of white spandex studded with fake jewels 
made the difference. Still, he had the long sideburns, same 
height, weight, and the profile looked very familiar... 

She leaned down to say softly to Nana, "Is that the guy we 
chased the other day?" 

"Where?" 

"Standing by that tree." 

"Damn, Harley, be specific. There are hundreds of trees 
around here." 

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Harley pointed. Nana lifted the delicate net that hung down 
from her black pillbox hat, with tiny flowers sewn around the 
crown and peered across the grass and gravestones. "Yep. 
Looks like him even without the tight pants. Get him to turn 
around and run. A good look at his ass, and I'd know for sure 
then." 

"That's a possibility." Harley shifted her purse to her other 
shoulder and looked directly at Hughes. 

Immediately, Hughes was surrounded by men in suits. He 
looked up in surprise, then with anger. Harley could hear his 
protests grow louder when she got close. 

"Is this the guy?" one of the men asked, holding Hughes 
by the arm, and she nodded. 

"Yes. It's got to be him." 

"Is that a positive identification, Ms. Davidson?" the officer 
asked. 

"Positive is a little strong. He looks different in an 
expensive suit than he does in spandex or tights, but it has to 
be—yes, I'm sure it's him." 

"What the hell are you talking about?" Hughes demanded. 

A cop obliged with, "Preston Hughes, you need to come 
downtown with us. We've got some questions for you about 
Lydia Free's murder." 

Furious, Hughes resisted, so the officers got out their cuffs 
and prevailed after only a brief struggle. Panting, Hughes 
Hinky, dinky, parley-voo glared at Harley. "I didn't murder 
anyone! I just came here because of Lydia. I met her at the 
competitions last year and she was a sweet girl." 

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Sweat popped out on Hughes's forehead. Dark blue eyes 
narrowed. "You did this, didn't you? Accused me of something 
I didn't do just so your father has a chance at winning? Well, 
it won't help him, I've seen his act and he doesn't have a 
chance in hell of ever winning. He's a big joke! I'll still beat 
him—I'll get you for this, you dumb little bitch!" 

The cop turned him toward the road. "Time to go, Mr. 
Hughes." 

Hughes wailed, "I didn't have anything to do with murder, 
I tell you!" 

"Tell it walking," the officer said, and pushed him across 
the grass toward one of the cars lined up along the road. 

Everyone was staring. Harley looked at Tootsie. "Well, that 
was tacky. How dare he say that about Yogi?" 

Tootsie just rolled his eyes. "You have no sense of self-
preservation at all." 

"Well, at least he's going to jail. I don't have to worry 
anymore." 

Nana looked up at her, squinting against the bright 
sunlight coming through oak leaves. "I guess that means 
you're not playing poker tonight?" 

"I suck at cards." 

"I know. But you're good for a laugh. I thought Gerald was 
going to pee himself when you thought a full house meant 
four of the same cards." 

"So I get confused. I won that pot, didn't I? Besides, it 
explains why I never did that well at poker with Bobby. He 
didn't even have to cheat." 

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As they drove out of the cemetery, Harley saw a man 
standing with his back against a big oak. He must have been 
watching the funeral. For some reason, he looked strange. It 
gave her a creepy feeling and she didn't know why. She 
nudged Tootsie. 

"Do you see that guy?" 

"What guy?" 

"The one standing under that oak across from Lydia's 
grave." 

Tootsie looked that way, but the man had disappeared. 
Only empty space remained where he'd been standing. 

"That's so weird." Harley stared at the tree. "He gave me a 
funny feeling. Why wouldn't he come to the funeral instead of 
just watch?" 

"A lot of ghouls turn out for funerals. I've never 
understood that. When my cousin died—she had muscular 
dystrophy—some guy no one knew kept sobbing and hugging 
people. It really was odd." 

"It's amazing what some people do." 

"That's why they have insane asylums," Nana said from 
the back seat. "It's where they keep the crazy people." 

"I think they're called mental health institutions now, 
Nana." 

"Doesn't matter what they call them, it's the same thing. 
It's where the crazy people stay." 

No use arguing with Nana. She was always going to get 
the last word in. 

Thankfully, Tootsie suggested they go out to eat 
somewhere, adding, "Not Taco Bell!" when Harley opened her 

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mouth. They ended up at Corky's Barbecue not too far down 
Poplar Avenue. Nana was in hog heaven—literally. She 
ordered and ate a rack of ribs that looked like half a pig, while 
Tootsie ate a barbecue sandwich big as a dinner plate. Harley 
ordered baked beans, slaw, and fried onion rings. 

"There's something the matter with someone who doesn't 
eat meat," Nana said halfway through her ribs. 

"I eat meat," Harley replied. "Just not that often. You have 
barbecue sauce on your nose. And your chin. And eyebrows." 

Nana didn't even try to wipe it off. "That's for later. So 
what's wrong with you? Deirdre's idea?" 

"Diva's a vegetarian. She encourages it, but doesn't try to 
push it on us. Except maybe for Yogi. She expects him to 
follow her diet. She says it's much healthier." 

Nana snorted. "What's wrong with a little meat? When I 
was a girl—and don't roll your eyes like that, they'll get 
stuck—we ate everything off a pig. Snout, feet, brains, balls. 
We had to. If we were lucky enough to get meat in those 
days, we sure as hell made good use of it. Rendered fat is 
good for you. Look at me. I've eaten it all my life and I'm as 
healthy as a horse. Which, by the way, I've also eaten. 
Raccoon, possum, mule, squirrel, rabbit, deer—oh yeah, and 
fried rat." 

"Nana!" 

"Just kidding about the last one. Jeez, where's your sense 
of humor?" 

"Speaking of," Tootsie said, and Harley saw from the 
glazed look in his eyes that he'd had enough of the 

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conversational topic, "did they drop the charges for horse 
theft?" 

"Mr. Griffin said he took care of it all." Nana nodded 
happily. "He always knows what to do. Smart as a whip, even 
if he does cost too much. Lawyers." 

"My fingerprints are now on file," Harley said with a sigh. 
"And they've got my mug shot in the system. Not exactly a 
recommendation for future employment or my credit history." 

"You're thinking of leaving Tour Tyme?" Tootsie sounded 
surprised. 

"No. Not anytime soon, anyway. I'm just trying to figure 
out what I want to do with the rest of my life. I can't be a 
tour guide forever." 

"Tell that to Carlton Chambers." 

Carlton Chambers had to be pushing ninety, but his 
employment records claimed he was only eighty-three. 
Wizened but tough, he'd been driving for Tour Tyme since the 
company had been established. Before that, he'd been at one 
of the other companies until they went under. 

Once, he'd driven for MATA, the city buses that were rarely 
full these days and had to be losing money annually. It was 
the only form of public transportation Memphis had, however, 
other than taxis or Nikes. And the downtown trolley that 
didn't go very far, but now streets were being torn up to 
extend the rails farther. Nana had said she remembered when 
they tore up the streets to remove the rails, spending too 
much taxpayer money when they were just going to lay them 
back down fifty years later. 

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"I can't see myself still hauling tourists around when I'm in 
my eighties," Harley said. "I'll have snapped by then. One too 
many Elvis weeks." 

Tootsie grinned. "You'll make it. I have faith in you." 

"If only I had that much faith in me. I guess you can put 
me back on the schedule." 

"Now that the murderer's been arrested, it should be safe 
for you to work. Not that we've got that many clients left." 
Tootsie looked discouraged. 

"Things will pick up. After all, like you said, a Tour Tyme 
employee is responsible for the apprehension, and that'll play 
big in the papers. And on the news. Too bad a news crew 
wasn't there to catch it on video. That would have helped." 

Nana leaned forward, over the now bare ribs on her plate. 
"Alex and Marybeth should have been there." 

"They're not reporters, Nana. They're anchors on that 
morning show, Live at Nine." 

"Don't care. I like the way they talk. And that Alex is a 
cutie." She made a clicking noise with her teeth. "Why do you 
think Hughes was arrested for only one of the murders?" 

"They're probably still gathering evidence," Tootsie said. 
"Just an eyewitness account isn't enough for an arrest. They 
need other things, like the murder weapon, fingerprints, 
opportunity and motive." 

"So they must have all that stuff, huh, or they wouldn't 
have arrested him?" Nana asked. 

Tootsie nodded. "They must." 

"Good. Let's hope they keep him in jail and don't let him 
out. Wonder why he did it?" 

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Harley answered Nana's question. "He wanted to win the 
contest." 

Nana shook her head. "Now he's lost everything. The 
idiot." 

"Hey," Harley said to Tootsie, "what's the story with the 
ogre's son? Family feud? Drugs? Bad seed?" 

"Some of the second, mostly the last. Larry's given Penney 
a pretty rough time. He's smart enough, just hates his dad." 

"Normally, I'd say that's understandable, but I saw a side 
of the ogre today I didn't know existed. He never seemed to 
have a soft side, but he's really broken up about Lydia. So is 
Larry an only child?" 

"No, just the only son. Penney tried to give him everything 
growing up. Best clothes, new cars, best schools—somewhere 
around twenty-three he decided his dad owed him all that and 
he shouldn't have to work for it. Penney disagreed. Junior got 
pissed, took off for Europe on his father's credit cards, and 
came back with an even worse attitude." 

"Kids today." Harley thought about Larry Penney and 
wondered just how badly he hated his father. Enough to try to 
ruin him? 

She looked up at Tootsie and knew he was thinking the 
same thing. 

Nana said bluntly, "I'd be looking at that kid, if I were you 
two. Kids brought up with that sense of entitlement rarely 
turn out well. Sounds like a sociopath to me." 

Harley blinked. "What do you know about sociopaths?" 

"What, you think I lived this long without learning 
anything? Take John Dillinger, for instance. Sociopath. Al 

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Capone. Sociopath. I wouldn't rule out most of Congress, 

either." 

Tootsie laughed. "You are such a darling." 

"So are you, princess." Nana winked and clicked her teeth. 
"Too bad you don't swing our way." 

"If I did, you'd be first on my list." 

"And I'd give you a run for your money, baby doll." 

Harley looked at them with her hands on her hips. "Please, 
your mutual love-fest is leaving me nauseous." 

After they left Corky's, Harley went back to Whispering 
Pines and packed her few clothes before tackling Sam. She'd 
need a rest before attempting to wedge him into his carrier. 

"Sure you want to leave? You can stay another night or 
two," Nana said. 

"I've paid my rent this month and hate to waste it, but 
thanks. Now that Hughes is in jail, it's safe for me to go 
home. And it's a lot closer to work. Maybe business will pick 
up again since the murderer's been caught. Tootsie's pretty 
worried about it. Job security isn't something to take lightly." 

"Well, I hope it works out. That Tootsie is a nice girl." 

"I'll pass along the compliment." 

"Time for my shuffleboard tournament. Think this looks all 
right?" Nana turned for Harley to admire her outfit. She wore 
a soft blue sweatshirt under her pearl necklace, a long jersey 
skirt, and rolled down athletic socks with her running shoes. 
Atop her head perched an Atlanta Braves baseball cap. 

"Perfect," Harley said. 

"Good. I hate good-byes. Don't stay away so long next 
time." 

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"I won't." 

Nana smiled and reached up to pat her cheek. "You're a 
good girl. I don't care what everyone else says about you." 

"Thanks. Wait—who? What do they say?" 

Laughing as she went out the door, Nana stuck her head 
back inside to say, "Psych!" then was gone. 

"You're a terrible old woman," Harley said to the closed 
door, and smiled. 

Harley went home, released an annoyed Sam into familiar 
territory, washed her scratches with hydrogen peroxide, and 
lay down across her bed. She fell asleep almost immediately. 

It was dark when she woke. Only the nightlight in the hall 
provided any illumination. She felt drugged. It'd been a while 
since she'd been able to sleep soundly. 

Yawning, she got up and went into the kitchen, where the 
nightlight over Sam's litter box put him in silhouette as he 
took advantage of the facilities. 

"Nothing like the smell of fresh cat doody to wake a person 
up," she muttered, but Sam was still sulking over the 
indignity of being dumped rear end first into the cat carrier 
and didn't answer. He was like that sometimes. He'd get over 
it. 

After getting a glass of iced tea, Harley went out onto her 
balcony to sit in the fresh air and wake up a little. It smelled 
like rain. Wind rustled the thick, leathery leaves of the huge 
magnolia and felt damp on her face. Wind chimes clanged 
nearby. Tammy Sprague next door must have hung them. It 
reminded Harley of Diva, and that made her think of what 
Diva had told Tootsie. It didn't make much sense, but that 

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wasn't so unusual. There were times Diva was right on the 
money, but most of the time, she said obscure things that no 
one could figure out until later. Hindsight was twenty-twenty, 
as the saying went. Lord. Now she even thought in clichés. 
Nana was a bad influence. 

Leaning her head against the back of the chair, she tried to 
connect the dots between what Diva had said and the killer. It 
wasn't easy. Some of it was obvious, like being caught 
between the past and present. Hughes was still mad at being 
disqualified, so transferred that anger to all things Elvis. Tour 
Tyme was caught between. And of course, the hidden Elvis 
only meant that he'd been in hiding since committing the 
murders. But the candlelight reference ... What could that 
mean? The vigil or just that Hughes was in shadow? 

A sudden shadow on the table next to her made Harley 
spill her iced tea and leap up from her chair. Heart pounding, 
a shriek caught in her throat, and then she recognized the 
reason. 

"Sam, what are you doing out here? You know you're an 
inside cat. I signed an agreement promising not to let you 
outside. Cami would repossess you if I reneged. She said so. 
And I could tell she wasn't kidding. Now come on, go back 
inside and stop scaring the bejesus out of me." 

Sam deigned to offer a reply, with a rather indignant 
miaaow loud enough to wake up the lions in the zoo across 
the road. Maybe it was his way of making up after a quarrel. 
She took him in with her and shut the balcony doors. 

When the phone rang, Harley looked at the clock. A little 
after nine. She picked up the phone a bit warily. 

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Cami said, "I didn't wake you up or anything, did I?" 

"If you mean by anything am I involved in something hot 
and sweaty, no. Unfortunately. I think I'm awake. My eyes 
are open, so it must be true." 

"Not necessarily. I remember a sleep-over with your 
cousin Madelyn. She sleeps with her eyes open." 

"Makes you wonder if she doesn't do that during the day 
too, doesn't it. So what's up?" 

Cami hesitated, and then said, "I have a big favor to ask 
you." 

"As long as it doesn't involve Elvis, I'm good with it." 

"Are you sure?" 

"Wait a minute. I recognize that tone of voice. It's your 
This isn't going to hurt at all voice." 

"Well, it won't hurt. It'll just take up a little time. And 
space. It won't be for very long, I promise." 

"Cami—" 

"You'll be saving a life, Harley." 

"Yours?" 

"Possibly. Definitely Frank's." 

"Frank?" 

"Frank Burns." 

A deep suspicion ignited. "Frank Burns, like in MASH on 
TV?" 

"That's who he's named for, yes." 

"Cami, tell me it's not another cat." 

"It's not another cat." 

"Thank God—wait. Or a dog?" 

"Or a dog." 

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Harley closed her eyes and sighed. Cami really did take 
her animal rescue bit too far at times. Now she'd branched 
out into relatives. "Okay," she said. "But just for a few days." 

"I knew you'd come through for me, Harley. We'll be there 
in forty-five minutes." 

"If you collected dollar bills like you collect strays, you'd 
have more money than Donald Trump. Frank can stay a night 
or two, but he has to sleep on my couch. I don't give up my 
bed for anyone." 

"That's okay. He's got his own bed." 

Cami hung up before Harley could ask why a relative 
carried around his own bed. Uh oh. This did not bode well. 
She decided to be optimistic. Maybe it was a fish. 

When she saw Cami lugging a big glass aquarium, Harley 
breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't a crazy relative that Cami 
was trying to push off on her. It must be a fish. She didn't 
mind a fish sleeping over. Fish didn't make a lot of noise. Fish 
didn't require toys and cans of cat food. Fish didn't make 
stinky poop. 

"Hey," Harley said, opening her door wider for Cami to get 
through with the ten gallon tank, "you should have asked for 
help. I'd have met you at the car." 

"That's okay. I thought it'd be best if he was already inside 
when you met Frank." 

Lifted brow time. "Does Frank have problems with 
strangers?" 

"Not often. Strangers sometimes have problems with 
Frank." 

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Cami set the glass aquarium down on the coffee table. It 
was covered with a light blanket. Odd squeaky sounds came 
from it. The water filter? Rocks? Loud fish? Piranha? 

Panting a little, Cami looked at Harley over her shoulder. 
"Do you mind putting Sam up for a few minutes? It'll make 
Frank feel a lot better if he's not being stared at by a cat." 

"I can understand that. Unless he's a piranha, he's 
probably not that fond of cats." 

Harley shut an indignant Sam in her bedroom and went 
back into the living room. Cami had taken the blanket off the 
aquarium. Squeaking noises had turned to hisses. 

"I never knew fish made sounds." 

"They don't. Did you think this was a fish?" 

Harley narrowed her eyes and tried to look around Cami 
into the aquarium. "It isn't? What did you bring over here? 
I'm not keeping another cat. Even kittens. Sam wouldn't like 
it. He's picky about who and what he likes." 

"I know that. But he's only one cat, and I've got so many 
cats at my house that they really do make Frank nervous." 

"He's a cat. Get him a mirror. He can get used to it." 

"Uh, he's not a cat, Harley." 

"A dog? Cami, I don't have time to walk a dog! I'm not 
home that much, and Elvis week is coming up. I'll be gone so 
long, and—" 

"He's not a dog. Do you think I'd keep a dog in an 
aquarium? Jeez, Harley, get a grip." 

Harley did a fake feint to the left, and then moved to the 
right before Cami could block her view. A long, skinny 

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raccoon looked at her, blinking black beady eyes and 

twitching whiskers. 

"I'm not keeping a raccoon!" 

"Frank is not a raccoon, Harley. He's a ferret. Frank Burns. 
Ferret-face, get it?" 

"I got it. He's not staying. Get it?" 

Cami looked frazzled. Her blond hair stuck up at odd 
angles, the tee shirt she wore had a rip and stains with 
mysterious origins, and her cutoffs looked more David Duke 
than Daisy Duke. 

"Please, Harley. It's only for a little while. He's already 
been adopted, but she had to go out of town and can't take 
him until she gets back. No one else can take him. Everyone I 
know has too many cats or dogs, and Frank keeps getting 
loose." 

"Oh, that's a point in his favor. Don't you have a cat 
cage?" 

"Of course I do. Frank knows how to unlatch it." 

Harley looked back at the aquarium. Frank twitched his 
whiskers and put tiny black paws up against the glass. Cedar 
shavings held some toys and two empty bowls, along with a 
few tiny dark pellets that she suspected weren't just 
decorations. "What next, Cami? A llama?" 

"No livestock allowed inside the city limits. They make 
good guard animals, though. I've always thought I'd like to 
have one." 

Jeez. She actually looked serious when she said that. 
Harley shook her head. 

"I know I'll regret this, but okay. Only for a few days!" 

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"Great. I brought some, but in case you run out, here's a 
list of foods he eats. You're the best, Harley. I owe you big-
time." 

Harley took the list Cami held out. "Damn straight about 
that. Wait a minute—what's this at the bottom of the page?" 

She looked up. Cami had the door open. 

"Gotta go. Feeding time at the zoo. Call me if you have 
any questions, okay?" Cami swept out the door and closed it 
behind her. 

"Damn," Harley said when she reread the bottom of the 
page, "Cami!" 

By the time she got downstairs and outside to the parking 
area, Cami's red taillights were at the end of the driveway. 
Who'd have ever thought Saturn coupes could move so 
quickly? 

Apparently she banged the entrance hall door a little too 
hard when she went back inside. Sarah Simon opened her 
door a crack to peer out, one eye visible above the chain lock. 

"Sorry," Harley said, and the door gently shut again. 
Strange girl. She hid like a groundhog all the time, tucked 
away in her apartment and only coming out to signal six more 
weeks of winter. 

When she got back upstairs, the aquarium was empty. No 
sign of Frank. Sam kept up a yowl in the bedroom that 
sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard, and Harley went to 
the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. She took out a bottle 
of wine and didn't bother pouring any into a glass. After 
chugging a few swigs, she put the cork back in the top and 
the bottle back on the shelf and went ferret hunting. 

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She hoped the last line of Cami's list wasn't prophetic: May 
poop in panty drawer. 

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Chapter Fourteen 

Morning came too early, as usual. Worse, rain pattered 
against her window panes, one of those summer rains that 
cooled Memphis only as long as it hung around. When it 
stopped, streets would be steaming like a nuclear reactor 
plant. Rain also brought out the worst in Memphis drivers, 
increased the workload on police, and made the streets as 
safe as the Indianapolis 500 home stretch. It was a day to 
sleep in, not a day to be out hauling tourists, but she got up 
anyway. When had she become so damned responsible? 

She stumbled into the kitchen, fed Sam, checked his litter 
box, and made coffee. In that order. Any other order drew 
loud complaints from the feline quarter. Frank Burns was 
once more shut in the aquarium. He didn't look happy about 
it, but she'd finally found a use for that two-volume set of 
Shakespeare on her bookshelves. Wire mesh gave him plenty 
of air, she'd put a grape, a few ferret nuggets, and fresh 
water in his bowls before bedtime, and when she came home 
she'd check the pellet level in the cedar shavings. Maybe it 
wouldn't be so bad. Except that Sam seemed to view their 
guest as a threat. He growled low in his throat. He hissed at 
the glass. He hid under her bed. The last she didn't mind at 
all. 

Since the weather promised a sauna effect guaranteed to 
melt make-up and gum up hair gel, she opted for the simple 
look. As usual. A brush of mascara over her lashes, a swipe of 
cherry flavored lip balm, and the "just laid" look for her hair. 

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Tee shirt, khaki walking shorts, sports socks and white tennis 
shoes completed the professional yet comfortable attire of a 
tour guide. 

"Y'all be good now," she said to the hiding cat and sulking 
ferret. "I'll be back." 

Fortified with two cups of coffee and the cold end of a 
leftover bean burrito, she grabbed her leather backpack and 
headed out for the day. First stop—Claude Williams. 

She found Williams at his office off Mendenhall, one of 
those three-story bland buildings a stone's throw from Poplar 
Avenue. Expensive new cars filled most of the slots. Her 
Toyota with the bashed in front and rear fenders looked a 
little out of place. Good thing she had insurance. 

Williams's office was on the second floor overlooking the 
parking lot and Belmont Café. A young woman who looked 
almost old enough to vote greeted her at the front desk. She 
had light brown hair that swung loosely around her face, 
fingernails painted in three different colors, a short skirt, and 
canvas shoes that tied around her ankles. The desk was 
glass, with only a telephone, a pen set, a lamp, and a laptop 
on it. Very modern. 

"May I help you?" the receptionist asked. 

"I hope so, but I think I'm in the wrong office. Is Claude 
Williams here?" 

"Your name please?" 

"Miss Davidson." Always best not to give her first name. It 
saved time and the usual remarks she'd already heard a few 
thousand times. 

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Miss Jailbait punched a few buttons on the telephone 
console with her long curved nails, and in a few moments, 
Claude Williams came from the back to greet her. 

"Miss Davidson, what a surprise to see you here." 

She smiled. "I hate to bother you at work, but I have a few 
questions. Just clearing up some confusion." 

"Certainly. We can talk in my office." 

The floors were light polished wood, the walls a creamy 
white, and furniture minimal. It looked efficient but not at all 
welcoming. Williams's office had a few plaques on the walls, a 
few framed pictures on a light oak bookcase, and a potted 
plant in the corner. His laptop hummed atop his desk. 

"So what's this about Preston Hughes being back in the 
contest?" she asked when he'd shut the door. Williams didn't 
look at her but went to stand behind his desk and fiddle with 
a pen. 

"His request for reconsideration before the board was 
approved," he said, not quite able to meet her eyes. "After 
all, Derek Wade isn't in the competition this year, so there 
shouldn't be any conflict." 

Harley frowned. 

"Derek Wade isn't in the competition this year because 
Hughes murdered him," she said. 

"That hasn't been proven." 

"Not yet. The police have a different idea. Does Hughes 
know he's eligible to be in this year's competition?" 

Williams nodded. "I told him the same night we had our 
discussion. After all, no one can say for sure who started the 

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argument, and a man can't be disqualified just because he 
has ... uh ... an unpleasant personality." 

That still didn't mean he hadn't murdered three Elvises. Or 
Lydia. Or had been stalking her. It just meant it'd paid off for 
him. 

"So the squeaky wheel gets the grease, right?" she said. 
"Never mind. It seems he won't be in the competition this 
year anyway since he's in jail." 

Williams's eyes narrowed a little. "He hasn't been charged 
and they can only keep him for forty-eight hours without 
charging him. In the meantime, perhaps it'd be best if your 
comments and questions didn't border on libel. You might find 
yourself on the wrong side of a lawsuit." 

"Is that a threat?" 

"Good heavens, no." Williams spread his hands out to his 
sides, and the genial smile was back. "Just expressing a 
friendly concern. Hughes hasn't been proven guilty." 

"Uh hunh. I didn't know you two were so close." 

Williams's smile stiffened. 

Maybe she'd been wrong to take Williams off her list, 
Harley thought when she left. The possibility of a team effort 
wasn't too much of a stretch. And Williams had been on her 
short list once. But what motive? What advantage could there 
possibly be to winning the competition that'd be enough to kill 
four people? Was the trophy filled with gold? The cash 
winnings weren't that much, not for two successful 
businessmen like Hughes and Williams. They might not be 
CEOs, but they made a lot more money than the cash prize 
offered. It just didn't make sense. 

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She mentioned that to Tootsie when she got to work. 
Plopping her backpack down on his desk, she crossed her 
arms over her chest and looked at him. "Well? What do you 
think?" 

He leaned back in his chair. "Honey, I think it's time you 
stopped worrying about it. The police have Hughes in 
custody, and life can get back to normal. I've already booked 
four tourist groups this morning. My friend at the paper did a 
great write-up for us." He shoved the morning paper toward 
her. "You're a hero again." 

"Heroine. Don't you care that Williams may be getting 
away with complicity in murder?" 

"In a word, no. If he was complicit in the murders, and I'm 
not saying he is, then Hughes is definitely the kill and tell 
type. He'll be quick to incriminate Williams and claim it was 
all his idea. The police are good at finding out that kind of 
thing. Besides, I don't care right now, as long as they got the 
right guy." 

"Tootsie, I'm shocked. Where's your sense of justice? Fair 
play?" 

"Renewed now that business is picking up." He pulled the 
end of his headset forward and punched a button on the 
console as three lines lit up at once. Harley sighed and 
opened the front page of the paper. 

"Suspect Held in Elvis Murders" read the headline. It went 
on to say that police had an unnamed man in custody on 
suspicion of killing three Elvis impersonators and a Memphis 
Tour Tyme employee. "Harley Jean Davidson, instrumental in 
the capture of jewelry thieves this past May and smugglers in 

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June, identified the man on her tour bus as the killer of Derek 
Wade, 42, of Midtown," the piece read. Then it went on to 
give a little background information, including the fact that 
Diva and Yogi had been frequent guests at 201 Poplar for 
things like picketing the meat-packing plant and protesting 
the wearing of furs. Good Lord. Was it a slow news day? 

Not bothering to read the entire article, she debated calling 
Bobby and sharing her concern with him. That might turn 
around and bite her in the butt. He had a lamentable lack of 
faith in her powers of deduction and a surplus of experience 
in her past failures. Maybe that could wait. She'd have to be 
certain before she went to him again, even though the 
success of being bait to catch Hughes had paid off quite 
nicely. Bobby too often saw the world in black and white. And 
he had a conveniently short memory. 

"I'm keeping the security guards on the buses," Tootsie 
said when he had a moment in between calls. "Just for 
safety's sake. And to reassure tourists." 

"Good plan. So do you need me today?" 

"I'm calling drivers back in as we get booked. Charlsie 
quit. You can take her run from the Airport Inn to Graceland 
at three." 

Harley wasn't surprised Charlsie had quit. She'd been 
really rattled. The possibility of being stalked by a murderer 
could be unsettling. She should know. 

"Got it," she said, and took the printout of confirmed 
names he gave her. "Where does the security guard sit?" 

"Wherever he wants." 

"Sounds reasonable. Which van?" 

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"The ten." He hesitated. "It's parked next to Lydia's bus in 
the garage." 

"That's okay. I'll have to get over it sometime." 

It was harder than she thought. She kept seeing Lydia 
standing in the bus doorway, her face reflecting fear and 
horror as she babbled and then wound herself around Harley 
like she could protect her. She certainly hadn't done a very 
good job of it. It took a cold-blooded person to kill a harmless 
creature like Lydia. That only made her more determined to 
make sure Hughes got what he deserved. 

The rain had stopped, and the streets were slick and 
littered with cars whose drivers obviously had never seen rain 
before, much less driven in it. The air was so muggy that she 
turned the van's AC on full blast. 

The tourists were waiting at the hotel by the airport, a 
pretty happy group. Harley checked off names and matched 
ID photos to passengers, a tedious task she didn't mind doing 
at all. In spite of the wait, the group remained cheerful, a 
good sign. Surly tourists who complained about everything 
from the summer heat to long lines—like it was her fault— 
were a pain in the ass. 

Their good mood raised her spirits, so that by the time 
they got to Graceland and she had them in line to get on the 
EPE bus to cross the street to the mansion, she was able to 
laugh at some of their jokes and banter. This was the kind of 
group she liked, there for fun and to appreciate Elvis, not to 
ridicule the man and his talents or his taste. After all, time 
had stopped for Elvis in 1977, and he'd have no doubt 

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redecorated the Jungle Room sooner or later. Maybe he'd 
always have been a little over the top, but who knew? 

Bubba's security guard, a man shaped like a square, with 
no neck but an impressive pistol on his belt, had gone to talk 
to someone he apparently knew. Another security guard, 
probably. He'd not said a single word the entire ride, but sat 
in the last row and pretended not to watch all the passengers. 
But Harley saw in her rearview mirror that he kept a close eye 
on everyone. Obviously, a jovial personality was not an 
employment requirement in the security business. 

Harley went inside the coffee shop and ordered a Coke. 
She had some time on her hands before her group got 
through across the street, and she wasn't supposed to take 
them back to their hotel for three hours. Maybe Tootsie had 
another run for her, so she called him from a pay phone. 

"God," he said when he heard her voice, "don't tell me—" 

"No, everything's just fine. Hughes is in police custody, 
remember? I just wanted to see if you needed me for a short 
run. I've got three hours to kill. My cell phone lost its charge, 
so I can't even talk on the phone. If I sit here too long, I'll 
start thinking." 

"That's never good. Let me see what I've got. Have a cold 
drink and I'll call you right back at this number." 

Caller ID could be a wonderful thing. She drank a Coke, 
ate some fries, and was thinking about a piece of pie versus 
the slight tightening of her jeans during the days spent with 
Nana when the phone rang. 

"Yo," she said into the receiver. 

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"I've got a quickie for you, and don't make any jokes 
about my choice of words," Tootsie said. "A group got stuck 
at the airport and all the other companies are booked, of 
course. Harley? Are you there?" 

"Yep. You said no jokes so I'm just biting my tongue." 

"Thank you. They need a ride and will be waiting at 
passenger pickup. Your contact name is Sam Elliott." 

"The actor?" 

"I should know? I ran his credit card and he checks out. 
Just pick them up and take them to the Ridgeway Inn on 
Poplar." 

"Good idea to get in the taxi and limo service." 

"Wasn't it? Don't speed, but hurry, okay? They're willing to 
pay fat corporate dollars for a ride now instead of having to 
wait for the next limo or hotel van." 

"I'm on it." 

She headed for the parking lot behind the tourist shops. It 
couldn't be the Sam Elliott, she was sure. This one was 
corporate and would be some potbellied bald guy making 
jokes that were stupid, but his employees would laugh 
anyway. 

She got close to the van and unlocked it with the remote. 
It made a beeping sound. Then a loud blare from behind 
made her jump. The backpack fell from her hands, landed on 
the paved parking lot, and her cell phone popped out of its 
safe little pocket and skidded a few feet away. Before she 
could pick it up, the guy who'd startled her with his horn 
drove over it, coming so close to her that she had to flatten 

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herself against the van to keep from being hit. What a jerk. 
He never even slowed down. 

Harley stared at what was left of her cell phone. 
Apparently they weren't hardy enough to survive being run 
over. Sadly, she gathered up the remains. Another phone 
fatality. 

While she was looking at the pieces of phone in her hand, 
a harrowing thought made her shudder. Had it been him? The 
Elvis killer? She flung herself into the van and locked the 
doors, sweating from more than the heat. An urgent need to 
get out of the parking lot made her hit the curb before she 
got to Elvis Presley Boulevard. 

On her way to the airport, Harley realized that she hadn't 
even thought about finding the security guard. He probably 
hadn't missed her, either. It shouldn't matter. Hughes was 
behind bars and no Elvises had been murdered in over a 
week. Life could go back to normal. Whatever that was. 

Obviously, the group had spent corporate dollars at the bar 
while waiting. A rowdy bunch, but in a harmless kind of way. 
No mishaps slowed the trip to their hotel, conveniently 
located at the entrance to the interstate that'd take her 
swiftly back to Graceland. Ridgeway Inn was due to be torn 
down and replaced by something else soon, progress on the 
march. It was also across the street from Memorial Park 
Cemetery where Lydia had been buried. 

Something—guilt, sorrow, or just curiosity—drew her gaze 
to the fieldstone walls that enclosed the cemetery lawns. 
Bright blobs of color looked incongruous, bobbing around in 
front of the walls, and she realized the colors were helium 

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balloons held aloft by a white-gloved hand. Staring, her heart 
skipped a beat. Blood made a pounding noise in her ears so 
that she hardly heard the passengers disembark from the van 
and go into the hotel. Clutching the steering wheel with 
suddenly cold fingers, she looked at the painted white face 
and too-red mouth of the mime that had shoved her at the 
ballpark. It had to be the same one. He looked straight at 
her, red lips squared in a smug grin. Then he did a little 
dance, put up his hands to his face like he'd just seen 
something awful, and pranced down the sidewalk toward the 
cemetery entrance. 

She stomped on the accelerator and peeled out of the 
parking lot onto Poplar. When she cut in front of a car to get 
to the cemetery entrance, the driver laid on the horn and 
flipped her the Southern salute. If she wasn't in a hurry she'd 
have returned the gesture, but the mime had skipped around 
the fieldstone wall and disappeared. Helium balloons rose 
slowly into the sky. She headed straight for them. He wasn't 
there, of course. He'd disappeared. Where in hell could he 
have gone so quickly? If it was Hughes, when had he made 
bail? Bobby should have warned her. 

A road to the right led to the offices, chapel, and 
mausoleum. Straight ahead lay the grotto. The huge waterfall 
fountain separated the entrance and exit to the cemetery 
grounds. Cursing the lack of her cell phone, Hughes's release, 
and that tickling little warning at the back of her neck, she 
eased the van forward. A few visitors looked up when she 
drove slowly by, probably wondering if the cemetery was on 
the tour route now, but no mime popped up. He couldn't have 

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gone far. How had Hughes known where she'd be, anyway? It 
couldn't be just coincidence he'd be there when she dropped 
off a group at the hotel across the street. He always seemed 
to know where she'd be. Damn. 

There was something really strange about all this besides 
the fact she was trawling through a cemetery looking for a 
mime. As good as her imagination got at times, she'd never 
dream up something like this. How did he know where she'd 
always be? How had he known about Nana's retirement 
home, the ballpark, and now here? Something really screwy 
was going on. 

A flash of white on the winding road ahead caught her 
attention and she turned the van. It started to rain again. A 
few drops hit the windshield, but not enough to turn on the 
wipers. She hit the power button for the window and let it 
halfway down. As crazy as it sounded even to her, if there 
was a liberal smell of too-sweet aftershave, she'd know it was 
Hughes. Apparently he didn't know he reeked of it. 

All she smelled was rain, gas fumes, and wet asphalt. No 
sweet aftershave. Maybe she was imagining things. Or maybe 
he hadn't bathed in it this time. After all, he hadn't stunk of it 
when he went to see Claude Williams. She thought about that 
for a moment. Would it be something new he'd started, a sort 
of trademark or cover-up when committing murder? Maybe 
she'd ask Bobby if the smell had been in Lydia's apartment. 
Maybe there were two murderers. After all, she hadn't noticed 
the smell in her van with the first killing, but then, she'd been 
too unnerved afterward to notice much of anything. 

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She thought about that for a minute. Hughes could have 
an accomplice, but that wasn't very logical. Not many people 
considered murder an appropriate elimination of Elvis 
contestants. If there weren't two murderers ... it had to be 
Hughes. Who else could it be? He was the only one with a 
solid motive. Besides, he was back in the competitions now so 
maybe he had a lot more to lose. In his twisted mind, if 
winning was all-important, he had to make it to the final 
competition. And Williams might be his partner. But what 
could be so damn important about winning an Elvis 
competition? It just didn't make a lot of sense. 

Then again, this could be an unrelated event. It was 
entirely possible she'd annoyed any number of people. That 
seemed to be one of her talents. Maybe the mime had been a 
tourist on one of her tours that she'd had to put off the van. 
It happened on occasion. Anytime a surplus of alcohol and 
belligerence mixed, it usually ended in an eviction. She'd 
been hired as a driver, not a bouncer, but sometimes the two 
careers overlapped. 

Whoever the mime was, he'd attacked her in the ladies' 
bathroom and tried to shove her in front of a bus outside 
AutoZone. That called for police intervention, no matter who 
he was. If she left to call the cops, he'd be gone when they 
got there. That was a given. No choice but to pursue and 
hopefully capture. Or at least identify. Then let the cops find 
out why he'd tried to kill her. 

A gust of cool air blew into the window, smelling faintly like 
too-sweet perfume. Okay, it had to be the same guy. And he 

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was close. She put down both front windows to get a cross-
breeze going. 

The van inched forward. Her backpack lay on the seat next 
to her and she pulled it close. If she saw him, she'd use her 
industrial strength pepper spray on him first, and then call 
Bobby. Except her cell phone had just been squashed. Damn. 
Okay. New plan. Juice him up with the pepper spray, and 
then use his suspenders to tie him up until she could call the 
police. Assuming he'd be properly and fully incapacitated, it 
should be a snap. If he wasn't, she'd empty the can on him 
and worry about the consequences later. Pepper spray wasn't 
lethal, was it? 

No, just hideously uncomfortable, she decided. Now that 
she had a plan, she fumbled in her bag for the pepper spray 
with her right hand and steered with her left. Nerves made 
her stomach thump, and her heart raced like Jeff Gordon's 
souped-up Chevy. 

The roads wound gently through the cemetery, sloping at 
times. Interstate 240 bounded the east side, Poplar Avenue 
the south, Yates on the west, and condos and houses on the 
north side. The neighborhood was upscale residential and 
high-end shops, with a sprinkling of doctor and dentist offices 
close to a Wendy's and Igor's Hair Salon. Igor cut her hair 
when she was flush with cash, as well as the hair of famous 
people like Jerry Lawler's wife. Ex-wife? It didn't matter. 
Lawler retained the title of King, as long as it pertained to 
wrestling and not Elvis. Too bad Lawler wasn't nearby. She'd 
appreciate a little help about now. 

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The road she'd been following came to a T. She paused, 
and then took the right hand turn toward the grotto. Dark 
clouds scudded overhead, oak branches swayed, and mixed in 
with the smell of rain and wet asphalt was that smell peculiar 
to cemeteries. Nana had said it was ivy, but Diva said it was 
the smell of sorrow lingering from those left behind. Nana's 
version sounded a lot better. 

A white face suddenly popped up right in front of the van, 
startling her into slamming on the brakes. Van tires 
screeched, but fortunately she was going slow enough that 
the air bag didn't balloon out. She slammed the van into gear 
and bolted out the driver's door, pepper spray in hand, hot on 
the trail of the dancing mime. He managed to stay just ahead 
of her, and she was glad it had started raining hard enough 
that no one would see her running after some guy skipping 
along in tight black pants, ballet shoes, white shirt and 
suspenders, and wearing a black bowler on top of his head. 
They'd both be taken down to Memphis Psychiatric. 

"Stop!" she yelled even though she knew he wouldn't. It 
just seemed like she should at least be yelling something at 
him. 

He turned around and ran backward, doing that thing 
again with his hands pressed to his face and his mouth open 
like he was scared. That made her pretty mad. If she could 
just get close enough to this guy, she'd give him a shot of 
pepper spray that'd make those painted black tears on his 
face real enough, by God. 

He must have read her mind. What looked like spiffy ballet 
pumps picked up a little speed. They had to be getting slick 

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because of the rain, but he didn't miss a step over the arched 
footbridge that led to the grotto. A high rock wall rose behind 
the man-made cave. To the right of the grotto, some kind of 
storage area with a curved door and barred window had been 
carved. 

Rain came down harder and thunder rumbled. It came 
down so hard and fast it looked like it was raining from the 
ground up. Puddles quickly formed and drenched her Nikes. 
Carefully-gelled spikes of hair clogged her vision like drowned 
worms. Weather never cooperated. Harley stumbled forward 
a few more steps, peering through the downpour, thinking 
that she must have been a Nazi in her former life. How else to 
explain all this bad luck? Or karma? Whatever it was, she 
should rethink letting Diva cleanse her aura. 

She stopped. There was no sign of the killer mime. He 
could have climbed the rocks, but she didn't think so. Maybe 
he went behind the grotto. There was some kind of dirt path 
that went off to one side. Streams of runoff rain splashed 
down the rock wall in little waterfalls. Grass and plants 
flattened out under the force. So where had the guy gone? 

Then he reappeared, white face looking like a disembodied 
moon in the pelting rain. It was bizarre. When he ducked into 
the crystal grotto, Harley smiled. Now she had him. There 
was no other way out of there. There should be an iron gate 
she could close to keep him in there until the police showed 
up. Everything had to be locked up at night because of 
vandals with the mental acuity of garden slugs who'd found it 
amusing to spray paint the crystals and the carved Biblical 
scenes. This time, their low IQs might work in her favor. 

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Gasping for air that wasn't full of water, she half-ran, half-
slid across the footbridge and slammed shut the iron gate. It 
took a little work since it was hooked to the wall and heavier 
than she'd thought it'd be, but if he knew what she was 
doing, he didn't try to stop her. When she got the opening 
barred, she leaned back against it to catch her breath. 

And damn if he wasn't right there in front of her. Outside 
of the cave instead of inside. 

"How the hell...?" 

The dark red mouth squared into a silent grin. Every cell in 
her brain screamed at her to run, but her muscles didn't get 
the message in time. Well, what a bitch. 

That was her last coherent thought before he pressed 
something against her arm and a numbing shot of voltage 
curled her hair and turned her into a flounder. 

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Chapter Fifteen 

It was dark. The kind of dark that had to exist before the 
Big Bang. A musty smell filled the small space, and she had a 
hell of a headache. Harley tried to sit up, but her head hit a 
hard surface. Something soft cushioned her, but she didn't 
have room to roll over. No noise or sound provided any 
bearings for where she might be. Damn, it was quiet as a 
tomb. 

No. That'd be too macabre. She shoved with all her 
strength at the lid over her but it didn't budge. Okay, don't 
panic, she told herself. No point in panicking. It couldn't be 
what it seemed to be, she just hadn't figured out yet where 
she was or how to get out. Panic would only make it a lot 
worse. 

She sucked in a deep breath that smelled like dirt and 
tasted like death, and panic took over for a few minutes as 
she screamed until she was hoarse. When it subsided, she 
tried to stop shivering. 

"All right," she said aloud so she didn't seem so alone, and 
her voice sounded muffled and heavy in the closeness, "I'll 
get out of this. Somehow. My karma hasn't been that bad. 
I'm nice to dogs and idiots. I love my parents. I visit the 
elderly." 

Her voice broke a little on the last word. Tears stung her 
eyes. Her clothes were damp, her head still wet, and her toes 
felt squishy inside her shoes. She couldn't have been in here 

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that long. Air must be coming in from somewhere. If ... if she 
was buried, it wouldn't last long. 

No nightmare had ever been like this. Maybe she should 
just go ahead and suck in all the air and get it over with 
instead of dying slowly. No, dammit. Something stronger than 
fear took over. She filled her lungs with air and let it out very 
slowly, a little at a time, then waited to take the next breath. 
Maybe she should breathe shallowly, but this seemed to work 
best. 

Stale air felt warm and stuffy. After a while sleep tugged at 
her eyelids, but she kept them open even though she couldn't 
see anything. If she fell asleep, she'd never wake up. Not in 
this life. 

That made her think of Diva's assurance that her spirit 
guides were always there. Maybe Diva's spirit guides were 
always on the job, but apparently her daughter's spirit guides 
were still gambling in Vegas. Unlucky in life and love, it 
seemed. 

Morgan. She wondered if he'd miss her, or if he'd just be 
mad that she hadn't listened to him. That'd be Bobby's first 
reaction. Then he'd think of the past sixteen years and feel 
regret. As for Morgan, she had no idea what he'd feel. Or 
even if he'd feel anything. A month ago she'd have had a 
different opinion, but now? 

Thinking of Morgan and Bobby and her own imminent 
demise made her breathe too heavily, so she focused on 
something else. She thought about Tootsie and wished she'd 
made out a will so he could have the last few silk dresses she 
owned. Cami would take Sam back, of course, and probably 

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keep him the rest of his life since no one else could stand the 
cat. And the souvenir she'd brought home from that 
warehouse where she'd almost been killed would really make 
Nana happy. A wooden penis was just the kind of thing she'd 
find an appropriate bequest. 

Okay. That wasn't focusing on something else. That was 
still thinking about dying. 

She thought about her brother Eric and some of the stuff 
they'd done as kids, then how Diva and Yogi may not have 
been conventional parents, but they'd always been 
supportive. At least they weren't judgmental or prejudiced. 
Except for Yogi's distrust of anything to do with the 
government. 

That made her think of some of their past protests at 
meat-packing plants and cosmetic manufacturers rumored to 
use animals as test subjects, and how she'd had to bail them 
out of jail. How many times? A lot. Then there were the 
protests they'd staged for human rights. And civil rights. 
Wasn't there something about animal rights? 

It got harder to think and she concentrated on breathing in 
and letting it out slowly. Breathe in, hold, exhale. Breathe in, 
hold, exhale. It was so hard to keep her eyes open. 

* * * * 

Earthquake. Damn, she was underground in an 
earthquake. What else could happen? And it was wet. She'd 
probably drown. 

"Harley. Dammit, Harley, open your eyes! More oxygen, 
somebody give her more oxygen!" 

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Morgan? She opened her eyes, but everything was blurred. 
And wet. There was some kind of cover over her nose and 
mouth. Strangers crowded around looking down at her, and 
she got cranky and started shoving. 

"Get ... off me!" 

Someone laughed. Morgan, she thought, but the crowd 
thinned some. 

"Hey you," Morgan said, his face coming into focus. 
"They're going to take you to the hospital to check you out, 
okay?" 

"So ... I have ... a choice?" 

"No. We'll talk later. Just keep breathing for now." 

That sounded like a plan. She nodded and closed her eyes. 

When she woke up again, she was on a gurney in the 
emergency room. Doctors said a lot of things, mostly how 
lucky she was they'd found her in time, and that she'd be fine 
with a little rest and a lot of air. They left, and Morgan stood 
at the side of her bed. 

On the other side, Diva and Yogi huddled close by, looking 
worried. Harley realized it was the first time in years she'd 
seen that look on her mother's face. 

"Fire my ... spirit guides," she whispered, and like 
someone had turned on a light, a smile chased away the 
frown on Diva's face. Harley thought she'd never before quite 
appreciated how beautiful Diva was. Yogi kept a worried 
expression. They must have come to the hospital instead of 
going to the competitions. He still wore his Elvis costume, 
complete with cape, lacquered hair, gold chains, and long 
sideburns. How wonderful they both looked. 

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"If not for your spirit guides," Diva said in a husky voice, "I 
wouldn't have known where to look for you." Bells sewn into 
her sleeves tinkled as she dabbed at her eyes. 

Yogi nudged closer, one arm around her mother's 
shoulders and his other hand reaching through the aluminum 
bars to touch Harley's arm. "When I find the guy who did this 
to you, he'll wish he hadn't, I promise!" 

"So much for ... being a pacifist," Harley got out with a 
weak laugh. 

"Father first. Pacifist second. It's engraved on my tire 
iron." 

"Take away his tire iron," Morgan said to Diva across the 
hospital bed. "I'll find the guy, and he'll wish that all he had 
to deal with was a tire iron." 

"Yes," Diva said, "I know." 

A little startled, Harley looked up at Mike. Blue eyes 
burned behind his half-lowered black lashes. Grooves 
deepened around his mouth. He put his fingers on her wrist 
and held it gently. His thumb made small, soft circles on the 
back of her hand. But she felt the tension in him, a slight 
vibration that said a lot more than his words. He had that 
look on his face again, the predatory one she'd first seen 
months ago when he was playing the part of Bruno Jett. 
Maybe he hadn't been playing a part after all. Maybe that was 
really him, and the more easygoing Mike was the disguise. 

Harley's heart rate monitor beeped and she sucked in a 
lungful of oxygen. Probably her blood pressure spiked, too. 
She closed her eyes. I need morphine before I say something 
stupid, she thought hazily. 

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* * * * 

When the doctors released her, Morgan took her home. 
She didn't ask anything, just rested her head against the back 
of the seat and relished being alive. Answers could come 
later. Right now she just wanted something to eat, drink, and 
lots of space around her. 

Without asking, Mike stopped at Taco Bell. He ordered her 
two bean burritos, extra sour cream, and nachos and cheese. 
He handed her a large drink, and she sucked down half of it 
before taking a breath. 

Wiping her mouth, she said, "God, that tastes good." 

"Thought it might." 

She looked over at him when they pulled out onto the 
street. He stared straight ahead. It'd stopped raining but the 
streets were still really slick. Memphis drivers who wanted to 
get anyplace without the benefit of a tow truck usually kept 
their eyes on the road in this kind of weather. Mike's jaw line 
sported what looked like a three day growth of beard, dark 
and bristly. A muscle in his jaw flexed a few times. He had a 
windbreaker on over his tee shirt, one of those navy colored 
ones with the police logo printed on it in white. It was 
impossible to tell what he was thinking. 

It felt weird to be with him like this, their relationship—if it 
could be called one—having gone south. At the same time, 
there was a level of comfort in being with him. Like nothing 
could get to her as long as he was close. It wasn't a 
dependency thing as much as an acknowledgment that his 
survival skills were a lot better trained than hers were—case 

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in point, being zapped by a mime and buried alive. Morgan 

would have never let that happen to him. 

Neither said much until they went into her apartment. 

"What's that?" Morgan asked, peering into the aquarium 
on her coffee table, and she remembered the ferret. 

"Frank Burns. He's only temporary." 

"I don't have to ask to know where you got him. He looks 
like a skinny raccoon." 

"That's what I said. Don't take Shakespeare off the top. 
Frank's a flight risk." 

"Sit down before you fall down," he said, and he didn't 
have to say it twice. She flopped back into her stuffed chair. 

The tantalizing fragrance of Taco Bell increased with the 
opening of the white sacks. Intrigued, Sam waited impatiently 
for his portion as Morgan pulled out her burritos and his 
chalupas. 

"So how did you find me?" she asked when her burritos 
were just greasy spots on sheets of Taco Bell paper, Frank 
gobbled his way through a teaspoon of mushy refried beans, 
and Sam cleaned chicken chunks from his whiskers. "There 
are lots of graves out there." 

"It wasn't easy. Diva found you." 

She arched a brow. "You asked my mother?" 

Morgan licked melted cheese off his thumb. "She told 
Tootsie that you were in grave—if you'll pardon the pun— 
danger. Seems like she had a vision of you in trouble, stuck in 
a close dark space where there were a lot of headstones. 
Figuring out where the headstones were was easy once I 

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heard you'd gone to Ridgeway Inn right across from Memorial 

Park. Finding you once we got there wasn't quite so simple." 

"I thought you didn't believe in Diva's visions." 

"I think I said mumbo-jumbo, but this time it worked out. 
We found your van and tracked like Apache scouts to the 
place where he'd dragged you. Geronimo couldn't have done 
it better." 

"Hunh. It's all a little hazy, so where did he bury me?" 

"You weren't buried. You were in a broken coffin under a 
lot of brush ready to be hauled away. I figure he didn't have 
enough time to do any digging or find an empty grave. It felt 
more like a crime of convenience instead of premeditation." 

"I'd have been just as dead." She wadded up her burrito 
papers and stuffed them in the empty sack. "How did he 
know where I'd be? That's the third time he's known where I 
am. I'd like to know just how he's doing that." 

"So would I." Morgan frowned. The muscle in his jaw 
flexed again. "He has a pipeline to all your activities, it 
seems. Who else knows your work schedule?" 

"No one. Usually not even my family. Tootsie does, of 
course." 

Morgan lifted a brow, and Harley shook her head so hard 
her eyeballs rattled. 

"No way. Tootsie would never be involved in anything like 
this." 

"Anyone else at the office have access to employee 
schedules?" 

"No. Besides, my schedule lately has been hit and miss, 
not regular. Like today, Tootsie gave me a pickup at the 

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airport while I waited—omigod! What happened to the 
tourists left at Graceland?" 

"They got some extra time with The King. When Tootsie 
called Diva, he said he'd had to send someone else after 
them, and asked if she knew where you were. That's when 
she told him about her vision." 

"And he called you." 

"Right." Morgan leaned back into the cushions of her 
overstuffed chair. It was a big chair, covered in white and off-
white stripes. He dwarfed it. Sprawled with his long legs stuck 
out in front of him, he looked more like a coiled spring than 
relaxed. He had his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle kept 
twitching. "So, any problems with any of the other employees 
there? You have a disagreement with anybody?" 

"Just Rhett Sandler, who does the payroll. But everyone's 
had a disagreement with him. I think it's his only form of 
entertainment, screwing up paychecks and hours. We get 
along okay most of the time." 

"Think this Sandler would feel the same way?" He gave her 
a look that showed nothing but mild curiosity. She knew 
better. 

"Probably not, but if you're saying he'd try to kill me, why 
would he kill passengers on our vans? That doesn't make 
sense. Unless he thinks he'll make more collecting 
unemployment." 

"Maybe Sandler has a grudge against management. Maybe 
he wants to ruin the business." 

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She thought about that. "It's a possibility, but I wouldn't 
know why. Ask Tootsie about the ogre's son. Rumor is they 
don't get along that well." 

"I think I'll do that." 

She didn't doubt it. 

Sam stepped into her lap from the arm of the chair and 
curled up. Vibrating with a steady purr like a massager, he 
reminded her that she'd made it home alive. Horrified tears 
stung her eyelids and she blinked furiously. Crying was off-
limits. It was something other people did, not her. Dammit. 

"You okay?" 

Morgan sounded really concerned, and that only made it 
worse. She nodded. 

"I'm just fine," she said between her teeth. 

"So I see." He got up and went into her kitchen. He came 
back in a few minutes with a glass of chilled white wine. 
"Drink this." 

"Only because you insist." She tossed it back in three 
swallows. Morgan looked down at her with a slightly raised 
brow, then took her glass and refilled it. This one she slowly 
sipped. The French doors to the balcony were open, white 
sheers shifted in the warm wet breeze, and the scent of damp 
grass and magnolia blossoms teased the air. 

"I don't like Hughes trying to kill me," she said when 
Morgan got a Coke and sat down in the chair across from her. 
"When did he get out of jail? And why didn't someone tell 
me?" 

"Hughes? He's not out. He's been charged with fraud." 

"Fraud? Not murder?" 

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"Not murder. Details to follow, so just be patient, okay?" 

She stared at him. "Then who just tried to kill me?" 

"Beats me. I thought you might be able to shed a little 
light on that." 

"You're the cop. I'm just an innocent citizen. Okay, not 
exactly innocent, but undeserving of being stalked by a 
homicidal maniac." 

"I agree." The muscle in his jaw flexed again, but he 
looked calm enough. Maybe there was something to that old 
saying about still waters. Or was it muddy waters? Nana 
would know. Or not. 

"So," she said, "either I'm being stalked by two killers, or 
Hughes is just a pissed-off guy with the right motive, no alibi, 
and bad luck." 

"I'm beginning to think the first." 

"Great. I feel so much better." 

Morgan leaned forward in the chair and clasped his hands 
while he looked at her intently. "Think, Harley. Someone 
obviously knows you and wants you out of the way. Who'd 
want to see you dead?" 

"Besides ex-boyfriends, a cheerleader when I was in junior 
high, my old boss—and quite possibly my current boss—and 
you, I can't think of a soul." 

He sat back. "I don't want you dead. I just want you to 
quit finding the dead. It occurred to me that you made a few 
enemies this past spring, but if they'd wanted you dead, 
you'd already be dead. Besides, they wouldn't bother killing a 
few Elvises just to annoy you." 

Harley had to agree with that. 

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"Anyone else?" 

"Well ... okay, this is probably nothing, but Tootsie and I 
were talking about the ogre and why he preferred Lydia to his 
own son joining the family business. Seems like Junior has a 
few behavior problems and grudges against his father." 

Morgan gave a noncommittal nod. "I'd heard something 
like that." 

"Then I'm telling you nothing new. As usual, you're way 
ahead." 

Morgan's cell phone rang, and he answered it with the 
usual "Yeah," then got up and went out onto the balcony to 
talk in low tones she couldn't hear. Dammit. Undercover stuff 
could be very intriguing. Of course, curiosity had a lot to do 
with it, too. Who was he talking to out there? Did it have to 
do with her, or with the other case he was working? 

"It's impolite to talk on the phone in front of guests," she 
said when he came back in. 

"I'm the guest." 

"That's even worse." 

A faint smile tucked in one corner of his mouth. He looked 
tired. 

"I don't want to leave you here by yourself," he said, and 
looked at her. 

"I'll be fine," she lied. "I can lock my doors. I have an 
attack cat. And Mace." 

"Yeah. That's great. Your brother will be here in a few 
minutes." 

She scowled. "I'm fine!" 

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"Then play cards with him. I'm not leaving you here 
alone." 

She said a few things that weren't very nice and stood up. 
While she'd planned on telling him exactly what he could do 
with himself, a sudden rush of blood from her head to her 
feet made her stagger and say something that sounded more 
like "urk!" Morgan leaped forward and grabbed her arm to 
steady her. 

"Sit down, okay?" 

"Only because I want to," she said, reeling like a drunk. 

He did the cop equivalent of an eye roll. "Fine. I don't care 
why you do it. Just sit down. Sit!" 

She sat. 

Eric arrived thirty minutes later. He wore baggy black 
pants, a Slipknot tee shirt, and did a handshake with Morgan 
that reminded Harley of hand games little girls played. Then 
he looked over at her. 

"Chick, you really need to stop hanging around with the 
wrong people." 

"Good advice. I wonder why I never thought of that." 

Eric grinned. "I brought a Jackie Chan movie and my 
sleeping bag." 

"Don't get too comfortable. You're not staying long," she 
said. "And what did you do to your hair?" 

"Chick, this is the real color. Don't you remember?" He ran 
a hand through his dark brown hair. It was thick and coarse 
and looked normal. He'd trimmed it but left his sideburns a 
little long and had the beginning of a beard. 

"You look like a Hell's Angel." 

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"Oh yeah, speaking of that, my car's on the blink again, so 
I borrowed your bike." 

"You what?" She sat up straight and her voice rose an 
octave. "You're on my bike? Have you got a death wish?" 

"Chick, I can ride a bike. I won't get hurt." 

"Oh yes, you will. I'm going to strangle you." 

When she stood up, Morgan stepped between them. "Hey, 
you don't need to get physical." 

Harley lunged around him toward Eric, but her brother 
evaded her, slithering away with a look of surprise on his 
face. "You idiot," she yelled at him, and he held up his 
sleeping bag to fend her off. 

"Jeez, chick, settle down. I didn't hurt it. Go look for 
yourself if you want." 

Panting a little, Harley glared at him. "It's paid for. If that 
bike has one scratch on it, I'll kick your ass from here to 
Canada." 

Eric held out the key, keeping the sleeping bag up as a 
shield. "Check it out. It's fine. Damn, chick, you need some 
meds or something." 

"Let's go down and look at it if it'll make you feel better," 
Morgan said. "You feel well enough to do that?" 

"It's amazing what an urge to kill does for your health." 
She looked at her brother. 

Morgan steered her toward the door. "I'll walk you down 
there and we'll check it out." 

Mr. Lancaster had excellent security lights outside the 
door, two 400 watt lamps that came on at dusk and went off 
at dawn. The front door that faced the street had one of those 

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gas lamps that didn't illuminate much, but that door usually 
stayed locked anyway. Everyone used the back door that led 
to the parking lot. 

Harley's bike was next to Morgan's car. Chrome gleamed, 
the black and gold tank had that expensive glow, and the seat 
looked unharmed. Eric had left the helmet on the back bar, 
and she picked it up. This was her pride and joy, the Harley-
Davidson Softail Deuce with over-under exhaust and a twin 
88 cam. It usually stayed in Yogi's garage with a canvas tarp 
over it, since no car could fit in there anyway with all the 
paint cans, PVC pipe, and assorted junk gathered through the 
years. 

"See," Morgan said, "it's just fine. Feel better now?" 

"Almost. Little jerk. He knows I don't like anyone else 
riding my bike." 

"That might be my fault. He said your parents were gone 
and he didn't have a ride, and I told him to get here any way 
he could." 

"So now I have to kick both your asses. Just as soon as I 
feel a little better." 

Morgan grinned. "Yeah, that should be fun." 

"Don't get too cocky. I've been known to inflict damage. 
Ask Bobby. I have ways." 

"I'll keep that in mind." He took a couple of steps forward, 
pinned her back against his car and boxed her in with a hand 
against the car on each side of her head. He leaned into her, 
closing the height difference, his belly bumping hers. With the 
light behind him he was silhouetted, but there was no missing 
his intention. 

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Maybe she should have pulled away, but she didn't. 
Instead she got that tingly feeling in the pit of her stomach 
again, and it went all the way to her toes. 

When he kissed her, the tingly feeling escalated into 
electricity strong enough to power all of Midtown. As if she 
wasn't already lightheaded enough. Damn him. He put his 
hand up her shirt and stroked her bare skin, fingers sliding 
upward. Everywhere he touched, her skin got hot enough to 
melt. She put her arms around his neck and held on. Oh 
yeah. She'd missed this. A lot. 

They stopped kissing after a minute. Or maybe it was an 
hour. Whichever, when Mr. Diaz drove up and parked his car 
in the garage, it seemed best. He lived in the apartment just 
below the Spragues, worked at FedEx and kept odd hours. If 
he'd noticed them necking like teenagers in the parking lot, 
he didn't mention it, just nodded in their direction and said 
hello as he passed by. He was medium height with black hair 
and skin the color of aged oak, had a slim build, usually wore 
slacks and knit shirts, and kept pretty much to himself. He 
also had a really cool car, a new Mustang hardtop convertible. 
Speed and beauty. 

"I'll watch until you're back in the building," Mike said, and 
Harley looked up at him. 

"Okay." 

He smiled and kissed her again, quickly and lightly this 
time, just a graze of his mouth against her lips. She hoped 
she wasn't drooling. 

Like he'd said, he watched until she was back in the 
building and the door closed behind her before he fired up his 

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car. Harley flipped the night latch on the door and went 
upstairs. Maybe being without oxygen had done some 
permanent damage. Why else would she let him just kiss her 
like that and then leave? It'd been his idea to take a break. It 
should be her idea when and if to stop the break. That's the 
way it went. There were rules about that sort of thing. 

Before she got her apartment door open, she heard what 
sounded like a scuffle going on inside. Then Sam let out a 
shriek and she shoved open her door, barging inside ready to 
do battle. 

Eric—or the back half of him—stuck out from under her 
coffee table. He seemed to be wrestling with something. And 
it sounded like he was losing. Sam was on top of the table 
looking like a Halloween cat with back arched and unearthly 
noises coming from his throat. Harley shut the door. 

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?" 

"I'm chasing a rat." 

"A rat?" 

"Yeah. It ate all your fish, but you forgot to put water in 
the tank anyway." 

Harley looked back at the coffee table. The wire mesh top 
to the aquarium lay on the floor next to Shakespeare. Damn. 
She looked back at her brother. 

"That's not a rat. It's a ferret. It belongs to Cami, and 
she'll be really ticked off if you've hurt him." 

Eric sat up, banged his head on the underside of the coffee 
table, and then crawled out. "That explains the mask he's 
wearing. I thought I was seeing things." 

"What have you been smoking?" 

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Rubbing his head, he looked up at her. "Just cigarettes. 
I've given up weed." 

"Uh hunh." 

"Seriously, chick. I'm thinking of getting into politics, and I 
hear they give drug tests." 

Harley rolled her eyes. "Have you been talking to Prince 
Mongo again?" 

Prince Mongo was a local Memphis eccentric, the only 
white man she knew who wore dreadlocks, sandals, loose 
baggy caftans in mismatched stripes and polka dots, and 
claimed he was from the planet Zambodia. He'd opened a bar 
downtown, and every year he ran for mayor. He had a loyal 
following who voted for him, but he'd never come close to 
being elected. Maybe the city wouldn't have a financial deficit 
if he had been, but that was one of those things that would 
never be known for sure. 

"No," Eric said, "I haven't talked to him in a few months. 
You don't think it's a good idea?" 

"What I think is a good idea is that you help me find Frank 
and get him back in his nice little home. I promised to keep 
him safe." 

"Right. I'm on it." Eric stood up and brushed cat hair from 
his black pants. Or maybe it was ferret hair. "Who's Frank?" 

"The ferret." 

Eric grinned. "Like in Frank Burns? That's funny." 

"Hilarious. What direction did he go?" 

"That way." Eric pointed toward her bedroom. 

Harley got an uneasy suspicion. She went into her 
bedroom with Eric and Sam following. A scrabbling noise 

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came from her dresser. When she opened her underwear 
drawer, a pair of red bikinis leaped out and streaked across 
the floor. Inside them was Frank Burns. 

"Chick!" Eric leaped back. 

"Catch him! He's headed for the living room!" 

She didn't want Frank getting cedar shavings—or anything 
of a pellet nature—on her best "do me" panties. 

Sam stood in the small hallway outside the bathroom, fur 
sticking straight up on his back like a bristle brush. He 
sounded like a leaking tire. There was no sign of her panties 
or the ferret. 

Eric peered around the door frame. "Where'd he go, 
chick?" 

"My guess is he's in the bathroom. Sam keeps staring in 
there. Just go in and close the door and you can catch him." 

"Why me? I'm not going in there. Ferrets bite." 

"You let him loose, you go in there after him. And I hope 
he does bite. You idiot. Why'd you take the top off his cage 
anyway?" 

"How was I to know? Who keeps a glass cage with a ferret 
in it on their coffee table?" 

"Well, obviously I do." Harley put her hands on her hips. 
"You're not getting out of this. You let Frank out. You put 
Frank up. Got it?" 

Eric got that look on his face she remembered from their 
childhood. Diva called it his "focused" expression. Harley 
called it mulish when she was being kind, jackassed when she 
wasn't. 

"Chick, chill out. It can't get far." 

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"I don't want teeth holes in my bikinis, or ferret poop 
either. Get the ferret!" 

He started to say something and stopped. His blue eyes 
made a laser cut right into her brain. "Good thing for you that 
you just got out of the hospital, or I'd tell you where to put 
that ferret." 

"Yeah? Don't let that stop you. Chunko." 

Chunko was her nickname for him when he was little. Until 
he reached five, he'd been built like a fireplug, stout and 
solid. Then he'd started growing up but not out, and decided 
he didn't like being called Chunko anymore. It was a 
guaranteed red flag. 

"Bubble butt," he said back, another red flag. 

"Snake snot." 

They faced off, both pretty irritated by now. Then Eric 
suddenly started jumping up and down and shaking his left 
leg. He made one of those high-pitched noises that always 
sounded so weird when a guy made them, almost like a 
shriek. Harley stepped back, a little startled. 

"Dude, what is your problem?" 

For a minute he just made those odd noises and slapped at 
his leg, then he unbuckled his belt and the baggy black pants 
fell to the floor. He wore SpongeBob boxers that went almost 
to his knees. She started to laugh, and then she caught a 
glimpse of red silk at his feet. It was moving. 

"My Victoria's Secret! Catch him!" She grabbed for the 
panties but Frank had them all wrapped around his head. His 
pink nose, masked face, and tiny feet were tangled in one of 
the lacy legs, but that didn't stop him from being too fast for 

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her to catch. He darted toward the living room and 
disappeared under a chair. 

Sam skittered sideways across the oak floors onto the rug, 
still making that guttural sound low in his throat, fur sticking 
up like it'd been gelled. Sam took his duties as Guard Cat 
quite seriously. Frank stuck his nose out from under the chair 
and looked at Sam. Black, beady eyes were rimmed by 
expensive red silk. Sam's eyes were blue slits. They made 
angry sounds at each other. 

Harley climbed over the arm of the chair and crouched, 
waiting for Frank to come out so she could grab him. And 
snag her panties. The damn things had cost her over thirty 
dollars, and she sure didn't want a ferret wearing them before 
she could. 

"Stand guard on this side," she said to her brother, but 
Eric was inspecting his legs for scratches and bites and didn't 
even answer. Just like a man. 

Sam approached the chair in a crouch, stalking the ferret, 
and Frank ducked back under it. Harley watched the other 
three sides of the chair. 

"This would be a lot easier if you'd help," she muttered in 
Eric's direction, and about that time the ferret made a run for 
it. She dove over the arm of the chair, grabbed panties and 
handfuls of furry ferret, and hung on. Sam tried to pounce 
and she fended him off with an elbow while trying to get to 
her feet. It was not the easiest thing she'd ever done, but 
finally, she got Frank back into his glass cage with the lid on 
top and without the red panties. 

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Ferret and cat both looked relieved. Eric looked worried. 
Harley looked at her panties. 

"Damn. Ruined." 

"Do ferrets get rabies?" Eric asked. 

"Probably. You should get the shots just in case." 

"Chick!" He sounded so alarmed that she sighed and shook 
her head. 

"Cami would make sure he had all the shots he needs to 
have, so I'm sure you'll be just fine. There's some hydrogen 
peroxide under the sink. And pull your pants up when you're 
through looking for wounds, if you don't mind. SpongeBob is 
winking at me." 

Life, she decided a half hour later, when they had the 
Jackie Chan movie on TV and bowls of microwave popcorn 
with extra butter in their laps, was returning to normal. 
Tomorrow she'd worry about the killer. Tonight, she'd let 
Jackie Chan handle that kind of thing. 

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Chapter Sixteen 

The finals for the Elvis competition were in just a few days. 
Yogi had made the last cut and was beside himself with joy. 
Not only that, the finalists were to be allowed a special place 
in the Candlelight Vigil this year, a ceremonial parade to the 
gravesite with their lit candles, a solemn procession to pay 
respects to the King of Rock and Roll. 

"You'll be there, won't you, Harley?" he asked. 

She looked at him, unable to refuse but wishing she could. 
It was always so crowded. "Yes. I'll be there, since I'm 
working that night anyway." 

Yogi's smile stretched across his face. "Good. I want my 
family to be with me to share in the moment. It's always so 
emotional." 

That's what she was afraid of. It always made her a little 
squeamish to see her father weep, and every time he went to 
Elvis's grave, he became very emotional. 

"It's not just the loss of a great singer," he'd once 
explained to her, "it's the loss of the man himself. Elvis 
touched so many lives. Maybe most people saw him as a 
celebrity, but he was always that shy Mississippi boy with 
enormous talent being wasted in third rate movies and songs. 
I really think that's what killed him in the end, his 
disappointment." 

Diva always said Elvis had just decided to go home. 

Whichever it was, Harley dreaded being caught up in an 
emotional whirlpool. No matter how festive the crowd, once 

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they reached the gravesite the mood immediately changed to 
sorrow. Very few were unaffected. Even her. Like Yogi said, it 
was such a waste of promise. 

Tootsie, it seemed, had second thoughts about Harley 
attending the candlelight vigil. 

"Are you sure you want to take that run?" Tootsie asked 
doubtfully when she went in to work. 

"Of course not. But the police are watching Hughes very 
closely." 

"So I hear." 

She tapped her foot thoughtfully. "I can't help wondering 
how he managed to show up at the cemetery with helium 
balloons and a bowler hat, though." 

Tootsie pointed out the obvious. "No one can prove it was 
him. His fingerprints weren't on the balloons, the grotto's too 
damp, and concrete doesn't show fingerprints well. Besides 
which, they'd have to match them with the thousands of 
people who pass in and out of the cemetery, and that's nearly 
impossible." 

"So you're saying they aren't even looking? And how do 
you know all this technical stuff, anyway?" 

"I didn't say they aren't looking. They'll check for fibers or 
prints on the coffin you were in. Sorry about that," he said 
when I flinched. "Sore subject, I see." 

"Only when I think about it. Do you know all this kind of 
stuff from listening to Steve, the invisible man?" 

"He's not invisible, just rare. Okay, let's work this out 
another way. I'll list the pros and you list the cons." 

"Easy enough. I'm sure Hughes is an escaped murderer." 

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Tootsie blew out a heavy sigh. "You want to try this or 
not?" 

"Sure. Your turn." 

"He was wearing white gloves." Tootsie paused. "And he 
was out on bail. He had time." 

"But how would he know where I was going? He'd have 
had to be in his costume following me around. He might have 
been able to get to the cemetery across the street and then 
stand out front to catch my attention, but it would have to be 
close timing. What if I'd gone to The Peabody? Or the Hilton? 
Or just stayed there at Graceland?" 

"Apparently, he's very flexible." Tootsie paused to take a 
call, and Harley rocked back and forth in the office chair next 
to his desk. The chair squeaked an annoying rhythm. 

It just didn't make sense. It left too much up to chance, 
and Hughes seemed to be more organized than that. Now 
that the police were watching him very closely, as well as 
Williams, they had to be nervous. If they were working 
together, why try to destroy the very business that gave 
them the most access to their victims? It'd seem much more 
sensible, if killing an Elvis impersonator could be called 
sensible, to kill one of the contestants in the confusion and 
noise of a contest, not in a tourist van. Especially when the 
least thing could delay or prevent the victim from even 
getting on the van. 

None of it made much sense to her. 

"Tootsie," she said when he had a break between phone 
calls, "is there anyone who might hold a grudge against the 
ogre? A personal grudge?" 

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He thought a moment. "Well, there is the guy who went to 
prison for embezzling several years back. He got ten to 
twenty. Penney prosecuted him, even though he'd been his 
partner." 

"I remember you mentioning that a time or two." She 
frowned. "Think he'd try to get back at Mr. Penney?" 

"It's a moot point. He's still in prison." 

"Maybe you should check and see if he's still there. 
Remember the last guy we thought was safely tucked away? 
States have a bad habit of paroling criminals before they 
finish serving their time." 

"It is a problem," Tootsie agreed. "I'll check. Meanwhile, 
you see if Bobby's following up that angle already." 

"Oh no. You call him. Lately, we don't seem to get along 
that well." 

"Bobby's just worried about you." 

"Of course. That's why he keeps threatening to put me 
under the jail. His concern isn't very comforting." 

Tootsie's lips pursed. "Maybe he just has a funny way of 
showing it." 

"You'd think I'd be used to that by now." 

"Wouldn't you? Okay. I'll call Bobby. Meanwhile, why don't 
you forget the candlelight vigil and just stay home? I've 
already given your run to Jake anyway." 

"Give it back." 

"Darling, are you never happy? I seem to recall you 
begging me to give you any run but the candlelight vigil not 
so very long ago. Now I've given it to Jake and you're still 

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unhappy. 'Perversity, thy name is woman.' It's no wonder I 
have alternate preferences." 

Harley stood up. "You have alternate preferences because 
you're narcissistic. Don't look at me that way. You just think 
men are prettier. Which I understand, because I think they 
are, too." 

Rolling his eyes, Tootsie said, "Please do us all a favor and 
don't go spouting that theory to anyone else. You're liable to 
set back any progress by at least a hundred years." 

"Live in fear." She made a face at him. Another idea had 
occurred to her while watching Tootsie talk on the phone and 
schedule tours on his computer. 

"Just how secure is the MTT computer these days?" she 
asked. "I've been watching you enter the driver's name, 
times, destination, number of passengers, estimated return 
time. Actual return time is entered later, after we punch in at 
the garage and the card registers time and driver. This new 
method is pretty thorough. Would anyone else be able to 
access this information?" 

Tootsie stared at her. Then he nodded. "Yes. A good 
hacker could get in without too much trouble. Especially this 
older computer that Penney insisted on using instead of a new 
one with all the firewalls. God, why didn't I think of that? I've 
been so preoccupied with everything, I haven't even thought 
about checking for hackers. Damn, I'm so stupid! Of course, 
that'd be a perfect way to find out where the vans are going 
to be and who they're picking up, and where they're going. I 
log all that info in here. It helps with payroll. I probably need 

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to check with Rhett, too, to make sure no hacker has 
accessed the financials." 

"So, if changes are made, like my trip to the airport and 
the Ridgeway Inn, and you put it in the computer, a hacker 
would be able to find that out?" 

"All he needs is a laptop and wireless Internet. He could do 
it from his own car." 

"Or from under his rock, I presume. Well, that's a start. 
Another angle for the cops to check out." 

Tootsie nodded slowly. "Maybe they've already done that. 
They asked a lot of questions after the first murder, you 
know, schedules, how we keep track of our vans, guides, and 
all that." 

"And of course you told them about putting it all into the 
computer." 

"But if the police suspect that's how the killer is accessing 
information, why haven't they done something? Oh, wait. Of 
course. I've been so rattled I didn't even think about it, but 
they must be gathering evidence, trying to track him before 
he kills again." Tootsie looked disgusted. "I should have 
already thought about that. And Steve should have 
mentioned it, the bad boy." 

"Oh please. You know cops never tell secrets. Not even 
pillow talk works." 

Tootsie arched a brow. "Then you just aren't doing it 
right." 

"Let's not go there, since I'm not doing it at all right now. 
So there's a way to trace who's getting information from your 
computer without you knowing it?" 

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"Oh yeah. They leave fingerprints. No, not that kind. I just 
need a little time to find out." 

Harley nodded. "Meanwhile, I think I'll go visit Nana. I'd 
like to ask a few more questions about the Elvis who showed 
up that day." When she reached the office door, she turned 
and said, "And don't forget to ask Bobby about Claude 
Williams. There's just something about that guy that really 
bothers me. Maybe he figures into this somehow." 

Tootsie, already on the phone, gave her a wave to indicate 
he heard her, so Harley went to her car. Heat saturated 
asphalt and bounced off metal vehicles, reflecting sunlight like 
microwaves that made Harley feel like a baking potato. This 
was the time of year the Mid-South lived up to its reputation 
of Sunny South. Savagely sunny. Northern visitors found it 
difficult to breathe, while Southerners stayed inside. Most 
residents felt that if Mother Nature really wanted to sauté 
civilization, there wouldn't be such things as swimming pools 
and margaritas. 

Harley thought that an excellent philosophy. Both sounded 
good right now. 

Nana wasn't in her room, but Harley hadn't really thought 
she'd be. Maybe the secret to living forever had something to 
do with not wasting time thinking about it. One thing about 
Nana—she wasted little time sitting around. 

The assistant director of Whispering Pines sat at his desk, 
and he looked up with a pleasant smile when Harley stepped 
into the main office. "May I help you?" 

"I hope so." She took the cushioned chair in front of his 
desk without waiting to be asked, giving him her brightest 

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smile. "My great-grandmother is a resident here, and the 
family is very pleased with all the extra activities planned for 
them. Would it be possible to get some information on just 
how these outings are arranged? I know some of them are 
planned by your office, such as inviting entertainment, but 
others, such as baseball games, must take a great deal of 
planning. Am I correct?" 

"Indeed you are, Miss—?" He obviously didn't remember 
her, odd in one way, considering her participation in chaos at 
the ball game, but a relief in another. 

"Davidson." 

"Harvey Wiltshire." Harvey blinked rapidly behind his 
glasses, pale eyes shining. He had brown hair, with the kind 
of hairline men often got that looked like soil erosion on both 
sides, and a narrow strip of thinning hair stranded in the 
middle. Thin, with an occasional nervous tic in one eye, his 
nice smile made up for any other deficiencies. 

It didn't take long for Harley to find out that the Elvis had 
just shown up out of the blue and presented the director with 
what had seemed to be a Paid in Full invoice for his services. 
The donor, of course, was supposed to be H. J. Davidson. 
Though it was unusual to allow an impromptu act to perform, 
since the Elvis had already gathered a crowd, they let him 
continue. As for the Seniors' Day at the Redbirds ball game, 
that was a regular outing, posted on bulletin boards and 
printed on the backs of monthly menus given to the 
residents. The names of all residents leaving on outings on 
their buses were entered into a computer and printed out for 
drivers and chaperones. 

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"Would you have entered my name as well?" she asked. 
"Since I was just a visitor?" 

"Of course. We at Whispering Pines do like to be 
scrupulously careful with our residents, and return with 
everyone who goes on our outings." 

"Thus the GPS bracelets, I guess. Handy." 

"Davidson," Wiltshire mused slowly as if just remembering 
her temporary residence and the stir she'd caused, "it's you, 
isn't it?" 

Time to go. She stood up 

Harley thanked him nicely for his time and went to look for 
Nana. Wide halls were quiet, the framed paintings and copies 
of the masters on the walls deliberately chosen for their 
soothing, peaceful subjects. Lots of tall windows let in 
daylight at the ends of the halls, cozy chairs arranged for 
comfortable seating. She noticed little of it, mind busily 
mulling over possibilities. 

So it would be easy for anyone who came to check out the 
facilities or visit a resident to know about scheduled activities. 
It seemed like a lot of work to go to when it'd be easier to 
just show up at Memphis Tour Tyme or the garage and shoot 
her. It kept coming back to one thing. The killer wasn't that 
worried about risky situations or he wouldn't have killed three 
Elvises in vans full of tourists, not to mention poor Lydia living 
in a rented room in someone else's house. 

Nor was he timid about trying to choke her to death while 
in a public restroom. Or wait in a cemetery across from her 
destination, knock her out, then bury her alive. She 

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shuddered. That was a memory she wouldn't be able to 
escape for a long time. 

This killer was bold, an opportunist as well as organized, 
and with a firm goal in mind. He went out of his way to 
publicly kill. For thrills? A challenge? Or was he deliberately 
trying to ruin MTT business. If he was, he was doing a pretty 
fair job at it. No telling what he'd do next. 

Suddenly, Diva's warning popped into her mind: You might 
want to skip the candlelight vigil. 

Most of the time she did her best to ignore her mother's 
frequent warnings and enigmatic comments. Nearly thirty 
years of experience had taught her that she'd go crazy 
waiting for it to happen, look for the worst behind every daily 
event, and then when it happened, she still wouldn't expect 
it. Clear predictions would be very nice. Diva just never had 
any. Her "visions" always seemed to come in odd fragments. 

But since her mother was often uncannily right, maybe 
particular attention should be paid to the candlelight vigil. If 
the killer meant to strike again and Diva was right, it'd be 
then. 

"Harley, what are you doing here?" Nana looked surprised 
and pleased. "Come to play poker again?" 

"You mean lose at poker. No, just dropped by for a minute. 
Do me a favor, all right?" 

"That depends. I might have a hot date later." Nana made 
a clicking sound with her teeth. 

"Just keep your date here, will you? I don't want to worry 
about you, and it's too risky for you to be running around 
town." 

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"Wouldn't be so damn risky if I still had my gun. When is 
Bobby Baroni going to give that back to me? I'm about ready 
to call his mother." 

"That's an excellent idea. I have her number. Meanwhile, 
just promise me you won't leave these grounds for a while, 
even with your new boyfriend." 

Nana studied her face a moment, and then shrugged. 
"Sure. We'll just fool around in my room instead of go to the 
casinos." 

Harley hugged her. "That's a girl!" 

"Anything for you, kiddo. Ah, there's my new guy now. 
Want to meet him?" 

Even if she'd wanted to, there was no time to say no. 
Harley turned to meet Nana's newest conquest. Not much 
taller than Nana, Rico Alvarez reminded Harley of Cesar 
Romero, the Latin star of the fifties—if Cesar had lived to be a 
hundred and twenty. Slightly shriveled, with dark skin and 
eyes and a broad smile, Rico's grip was strong when he took 
her hand and bent over it, a move that startled and 
concerned Harley in case he couldn't straighten back up. Yet 
he did pretty well, she thought, as he stood straight again 
and spoke with the slightest trace of an exotic accent. 

"It's very nice to meet you at last, Miss Davidson. Your 
grandmother has told me so much about you." 

Nana nudged him with her elbow. "I'm her great-
grandmother." 

Rico's eyes widened as if in surprise. "It cannot be! But, 
you are so fair and lovely, I never dreamed you to have been 
a child bride." 

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"Bride at fifteen, mother before sixteen. We worked quick 
back in those days, too." Nana winked at him, and it was 
obvious they shared a close secret. Maybe even an intimate 
secret. 

Harley blinked. Was that kind of thing possible at their 
age? Since it wasn't a topic she wanted to think about, much 
less pursue, she said, "Mr. Alvarez, I trust you'll take good 
care of Nana for me. She's a family treasure, you know, and 
we want to keep her safe." 

"But of course. It is my great pleasure to watch over so 
lovely a lady. Anna is a special person. Are you not, my 
dove?" He slid his arm around her waist and winked. 

Nana got all giggly, transfixing Harley. It seemed she 
wasn't immune to masculine charm either, a family trait that 
could be very disturbing. 

Leaning close, Nana said to Harley in a loud whisper, "I 
like the ones with a bit of the devil in them." 

"Apparently we have a lot in common." 

After Nana made that clicking noise with her teeth again, 
Harley left Whispering Pines. It was going to be a hot time in 
the old folks' home tonight, she bet. 

Since her Toyota had been so cruelly treated, an old friend 
of hers was trying to put it back together in his shop. Sammy 
had always been good at fixing things as long as they had 
pistons and plugs. Other talents might elude him, but he 
could rebuild a carburetor and replace struts in half the time 
it took most mechanics. And best of all, he was honest. Didn't 
charge for what he didn't do, didn't overprice his parts and 
charge out the wazoo for picking them up from the auto 

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supply just down the street like other garages did. The Toyota 
was in good hands, and she knew if it could be put back 
together, Sammy would do it. 

Meanwhile, he'd given her one of the cars he loaned to 
customers, a Chevy Malibu that had seen better days, but 
with an engine that purred like a tiger. There was no loss of 
power, even though the car was the color of rust and primer. 
A definite incentive to quickly pay your mechanic bill and 
retrieve your own car, probably part of Sammy's strategy. He 
may have quit high school, but he was no dummy. 

"I've got an idea," she said to Tootsie when she got back 
to the MTT offices. 

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but what is it?" 

"If the killer—I think it's Hughes, but it could be the ogre's 
bad son—is tracking my schedules through the computer, set 
me up for a run where he might try again." 

"No way." 

"Yes, way. Listen, the cops can be waiting for him with me. 
Or instead of me. At this point, I don't care which. It's getting 
nerve-wracking waiting for some guy with a knife and a 
grudge to jump out at me from behind the hedges." 

Tootsie looked thoughtful. "Maybe I'll talk to Steve about 
it. It might work. What did you have in mind?" 

"The candlelight vigil." 

"You're crazy. That place is always chaos, and you want to 
add to it? No cop would agree to that." 

"No, wait, see, it'd be perfect. There's a huge crowd there 
every year, and I'll be up at the front with Yogi, since he's 
been chosen to lead off the line. The head candle, so to 

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speak. I'll be visible, the guy will make his move, the cops 
can hide behind the door that looks over the pool and grave 
area, or even in that little crescent-shaped thing where 
mourners sit. The killer jumps me, and the cops jump him, 
bam! It's over." 

"And if the killer jumps you, the cops can't find him when 
he blends in with the crowd—bam! You're dead." 

"You have no imagination, girlfriend. Yogi will be there 
with me, and believe me, for a pacifist, he can get very 
vicious." She paused. "Look, the guy won't be able to resist. 
He's the kind who obviously likes a challenge. Why else would 
he be so bold about the murders? They're always in public 
places, except for Lydia, and even her murder was committed 
in a house full of people who didn't hear a thing. And Lydia 
must have known this guy. She called me right before he 
killed her to tell me that she remembered him from 
somewhere. It could be Hughes, Williams, and yes, sad 
though it might be, even Larry Penney. Some sons are so 
ungrateful." 

"Or just the opposite. My cousin Andy used to beat up 
people who insulted his dad." 

"Well, I don't think we're dealing with a good son here. So, 
what do you think? Should I do it?" 

Tootsie thought about it for a moment. "Only if I go with 
you." 

"Do you really think that's wise? Remember Diva's 
warning?" 

"Yes, and she also said it'd turn out all right." 

"I don't remember that part." 

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"You were stuffing pie in your mouth. Besides, I can get 
vicious myself when needed." 

She didn't need Tootsie's reminder about the karate. 
"Okay. Just don't wear a nightlight again. Wear something 
low-key." 

"I will be the very soul of discretion." 

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Chapter Seventeen 

It was a really good plan. Bobby didn't like it at all, but 
that wasn't unexpected. She'd been a willing lure before, so 
he got overruled. When Graceland's gates closed for the 
evening, they tested the wire and gave Harley detailed 
instructions on how to get out of harm's way when it went 
down. If it went down. They ran through every possibility with 
her. 

"Remember, you don't know this guy," Captain Baker said, 
"so keep on your toes. Suspect everyone." 

"Don't worry, I already do. I'm set to go. Shouldn't I have 
a weapon?" 

Baker looked at her, an expression in his eyes like he 
wondered if she might be a little unbalanced. "No." 

"It might come in handy, just in case." 

"The wire is enough." 

"Oh yeah, I can always use it to strangle him if things 
don't go well." 

It was a joke, but Baker didn't understand the humor. 
Lights from the house reflected in the pool and off his glasses. 
Tall, a little bit chunky, with a square jaw, big nose, and thin 
lips, he looked like he didn't laugh much at anything. 

Bobby, standing near the fence around the Perpetual 
Garden where Elvis and his parents rested, said, "I told you 
this isn't a good idea. She's a magnet for disaster." 

Baker turned to look at him. Bobby wore an expression 
that didn't bode well for Harley. He'd just have to get over it. 

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She was tired of looking over her shoulder. It made her 
nerve-ends buzz. She wanted this guy, whoever he was, 
behind bars. 

"Don't listen to him," she said to Captain Baker as she 
removed the wire from around her neck and gave it to him. 
"He's just mad because he's not running the show." 

Bobby looked dangerously close to an explosion. Belatedly, 
she remembered his Italian temper. Best to beat a swift 
retreat. 

"I'll be running along now, Captain. I still don't know if it's 
a good idea not to tell my father about this, but I'm sure you 
know what you're doing. See you here at six tomorrow night." 

She almost made it to her car before Bobby caught up to 
her. 

"Halt or I'll shoot," he said, and since she wasn't at all sure 
he was kidding, she stopped. 

"Oh. Hi, Bobby." 

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Harley? Don't 
you have any sense? You've always been nutty, but this beats 
anything you've come up with yet." 

Nutty? She stuck her face close to his. "Hang around. I'm 
sure I can beat this without a sweat." 

He leaned back a little. "Why don't I doubt that? Damn, 
Harley, have you got a death wish?" 

"We discussed that a while back, and you already know the 
answer. I can't keep waiting for this guy to find me at the 
right time and place. If I don't do something, he will." 

"So you're saying you don't trust the MPD to catch the 
killer and that you think you can do it better, right? I mean, 

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after all, you've had what, three months experience at finding 
bodies, and no training at all." 

"Obviously, your captain thinks I'm useful or he wouldn't 
agree with me." 

"Baker doesn't know you. I do." 

"Not as well as I thought you did. Why do you think I'm 
doing this? He's going to kill again, Bobby, and maybe again 
and again. He's killed three people and I'm next on his list. 
Do you really think I'll just cower in my room and wait for him 
to come get me? That's not my style." 

"You have no style, unless you count stupidity as stylish." 

They were in each other's face now, glaring at each other 
in the glow of an overhead vapor light in the parking lot 
across the street from the Graceland mansion. Elvis fans 
already crowded the area in preparation for the candlelight 
vigil tomorrow night, and many sat or stood by the mansion's 
fieldstone walls covered with scrawled names and dates and 
poignant farewells to Elvis. 

"You're an ass, Bobby," she said through her teeth, and he 
nodded. 

"I know. But I'm an ass who cares if you get killed." 

That took some of the wind out of her sails. 

"I hate it when you do that," she said. "How can I stay 
mad?" 

"I hate it when you treat police procedurals like a video 
game. Just stay alive, Harley." 

Sighing, she said, "I will. Like it or not, I'll be fine." 

"Is that one of Diva's predictions?" 

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"One of mine. I can't ever figure out Diva's predictions 
until it's too late." 

"We have that in common. Come on. I'll walk you to your 
car." He slung an arm over her shoulder and walked her into 
the parking lot behind the shops. "You're asking for trouble 
when you park back here, you know." 

"I know. But I had police protection. Like I do now." 

"Where's your car?" 

"Sammy has it." 

"You've got one of his loaners?" 

"I'm afraid so." 

Bobby grinned. One good thing about their long friendship, 
they had their arguments and feuds, but once they blew up at 
each other, they often forgot why they'd argued. 

"Let me guess. Is it the sixties VW Bug still painted with 
yellow and purple flowers?" 

"That one was taken. I got the Malibu. It's over there." 
Rust and primer stood out even under vapor lights. "Runs like 
a bat out of hell, though." 

"Sammy's a genius with engines." 

Harley got into the car while Bobby looked in the back seat 
to satisfy himself no one was hiding. "Go straight home and 
lock your doors, will you?" 

"Okay." She shut the car door and rolled down the window. 
"Would it be against your professional judgment to tell me 
why the MPD thought it necessary to use undercover so 
quickly in this case? In two days, Morgan was swiveling his 
hips and onstage howling like a hound dog. I thought things 
like that took a lot of time to arrange." 

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Bobby's shrug was noncommittal. "Cases work differently." 

"Don't tell me, then. I'll find out soon enough anyway." 

Shaking his head, he stuck his hand in the window and 
rubbed his knuckles over her chin. "I have every faith that 
you will." 

Somehow, that made her feel better. She wasn't sure why. 
Maybe because he expected her to succeed, even though he 
didn't recommend it. There were times Bobby reminded her 
why she still hung around him. Then there were the times he 
reminded her why she got so irritated with him. 

"Just like I have faith you'll end up in trouble and need 
rescuing again," he added. 

Harley's feeling of good will instantly evaporated. 

She rolled up her car window so fast he jerked back his 
hand before it got caught between glass and frame. Engine 
roaring to life, she slammed the Chevy into gear and 
screeched off. 

By the time she reached the parking lot of her apartment 
to change clothes for the Elvis competition, Yogi had called 
twice on her cell phone. Maybe she'd been looking at the 
whole broken cell phone thing wrong, she decided. Not having 
one might be a real advantage at times. 

"Yes, I'll be there, I promise," she said, trying to hold the 
phone between her ear and her shoulder, and failing. "Just 
running a little late. As usual." 

Yogi sounded excited. "I'm one of the five finalists! Five of 
the best—such an honor. Oh, and your mother says to meet 
us on the far side of the bar. This year is going to be special, 
I just feel it. Can you believe that it's here again so quickly? 

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Should I sing Suspicious Minds? I've always done that one 
well, but then, maybe I should do another one since so many 
others sing that song. Oh, and—" 

"Take a toke and calm down, Yogi," Harley advised. "If you 
don't, you're going to get up there and sound like you're in 
fast forward. Damn!" 

"Are you all right?" 

"Yeah, just dropped my dinner and stepped on it. I'll 
probably eat it anyway. Look, I'll see you there, okay? Think 
positive." 

Juggling her new cell phone—still on its long tether to her 
belt loop—backpack, car keys, dry cleaning, and takeout, she 
kicked shut the car door and hoped she hadn't forgotten 
anything. If she had, there wasn't much time to do anything 
about it. 

It took some doing to open the heavy outside door that 
had one of those pneumatic door closers, but she got into the 
foyer without doing major damage to herself. Getting up the 
stairs was an accomplishment in itself, with plastic-wrapped 
clothes dragging—why did she bother paying to clean clothes 
she'd probably never wear again?—and her squashed takeout 
dripping marinara, as she clenched car keys between her 
teeth and fumbled one-handed in her backpack for her door 
keys. Obviously, she had not thought ahead. 

After finding the ring of door keys at the very bottom of 
her backpack, she stuck one in the brass deadbolt, gave the 
door knob a twist, and nearly fell inside. Light through the 
French doors eased the gloom. She slung the dry cleaning 
over the back of a chair, leaned to toss the takeout to the 

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counter, and dropped her backpack to the floor, all in a 
practiced motion. 

"Sam, you handsome man," she crooned, "I brought your 
favorite, cheesy bread. Come on out, kitty kitty kitty." 

Frank Burns made ferret noises, a scolding sound like chi! 
chi! chi! 

"All right, you can have some, too. What the heck's the 
matter with this light now? I swear, Mr. Lancaster needs to do 
some serious repairs around here." 

The wall switch that turned on the pretty Tiffany-style 
lamp with dragonflies in jewel colors of deep red, green, blue 
and amber did nothing. She flipped it a few times as if 
determination would make the electricity work. Deep shadows 
filled the apartment's corners, the only light coming through 
the open French doors. She paused. Open? Uh oh. 

Silence pressed down, heavy and thick. There had to be 
someone out on her balcony. Heart thudding so hard in her 
chest it felt like a missing engine, she fumbled for the cell 
phone attached to her belt loop. 911 was the first number in 
her Quick Call. Little green numbers glowed as she lifted it 
high enough to see. They made these damned things so small 
now it was hard to find what she wanted, much less hit the 
right button ... ah. There it was... 

A hard chop to the back of her neck sent her to her knees 
but didn't knock her out. She let out a yell like Tootsie had 
that night, a "Hi-ya!" meant to intimidate. It came out more 
of a gurgle, but she didn't let that stop her. She rolled to one 
side, the sharp pain in her left arm and shoulder reminding 

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her that she still hadn't completely recovered from being 
stabbed. Nothing hampered her feet, though. 

When the dark figure leaned over, she kicked up with both 
feet and caught him right in the middle of his chest. He 
slammed back against the wall. Harley reached out, grabbed 
something heavy and threw it in his direction, then scrabbled 
to her feet and tried to get her breath even as she reached 
for another weapon. The second volume of Shakespeare 
followed the first one. It hit the wall instead of her attacker, 
the sound more of a splat than a thud. 

A lamp fell over, shattering when it hit the floor, and she 
hoped it wasn't the Tiffany lamp even as she leaped toward 
the French doors. Since the killer stood between her and the 
hallway door, any port in a storm would do. Another loud 
crash as something hit the floor, and the killer started 
cussing. After a couple of hops, Harley nearly reached the 
open doors and balcony. Then she snagged on something that 
gave a sharp tug at her waist and pulled her off-balance. She 
went back onto the floor hard, hitting her head against 
something solid. Lights exploded in front of her eyes and 
everything went hazy and wheeling, a kaleidoscope of stars, 
bars of light, and shadows. 

Helpless, dizzy, she dimly realized how vulnerable she was 
but couldn't dredge up the energy to move. The world was 
already spinning so fast around her, like having one too many 
drinks and holding on to the floor to keep from falling off. 

Still in her fog, yet aware of sound and movement, a high-
pitched yowl seemed vaguely familiar. More cussing followed 
the yowl, and as Harley tried to sit up, she caught the 

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movement of something small and dark flying toward the 
French doors. Then it disappeared. From behind her, a hand 
landed on her right shoulder, grabbed a fistful of shirt, and 
hauled her to her feet. 

"Stupid bitch," he said a little breathlessly, "you're more 
trouble ... than all the others ... put together." 

Harley jammed her elbow backward into his stomach. His 
grip on her shirt loosened so she brought the heel of her Nike 
down hard on his instep. He let go of her shirt and grabbed 
her by the arm, jerking backward as he swung her around. 
She bit him. Hard. Teeth sank into the fleshy part of his 
forearm and she held on until he managed to shake her loose. 

Cussing, he hit her so hard with the back of his other hand 
she saw stars again. Knee-jerk reaction set in when he pulled 
her forward, and she jabbed her knee up and into the 
estimated area where it might do the most damage. He 
screamed, a high-pitched yowl like a cat's, and doubled over, 
but still held tight to her arm. Just when she thought about 
biting him again he yelped, then thrashed around slapping at 
his leg and cussing. A dark shape crawled up his leg to his 
back and hung off his tee shirt, and its beady eyes reflected 
light through the open doors. Sam! 

It seemed like the perfect time for a defense move. 

Harley grabbed his thumb and pulled back hard, he let go, 
and she headed for the door. It was still so dark she could 
barely see to find the door knob, but she finally got it open. A 
wedge of bright light fell into the room and she paused. She 
had him. She had the killer right here. She had to keep him 
here until help came. But how? 

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Her breath came hard and fast but she managed to grab 
the chain holding her cell phone. It had nothing on the end 
but a distorted metal link. Damn, damn, damn! Breathing 
hard, she turned around just in time to see the killer grab 
Sam off his back and fling him across the room. Her breath 
caught in her throat. 

"Sam!" There was no answering yowl, no angry hiss. 
Propelled by fear and fury, she launched herself at the man 
staggering toward the French doors. "If you hurt my cat, 
you're a dead man!" she yelled as she collided with him. He 
didn't answer but kept going, and she leaped onto his back, 
wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his 
neck. Sickly-sweet aftershave stung her nose, and his wiry 
hair tickled her chin. 

"Oof!" he said when she landed on him. He staggered a 
little and then grasped the edge of one of the doors and held 
on. 

Harley beat at his head, then grasped his fuzzy hair and 
yanked hard. Her momentum took her backward when his 
head came off. She screamed and let go, falling from his back 
onto the floor, and then he was gone. 

About that time, she heard the sound of sirens, and boots 
stomping up the stairs. Someone had called the police, a little 
too late. She squinted at the head she still held. A rubber 
mask, complete with hair. It figured. Elvis. 

* * * * 

"I can't find my cat," Harley said for about the twentieth 
time, and Bobby let out a long sigh. 

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by Virginia Brown 

"He probably got out the open door. He'll come back. Cats 
always come back." 

"Sam's an inside cat. He's never stayed outside. Cami will 
be upset. Hell, I'm upset! I've looked everywhere, and called 
and called..." She put her face in her palms, muffling her 
voice. "Just like a damn male, always running off." 

"I'm going to ignore that. Are you finished?" he asked one 
of the guys that had made her change clothes and put the 
ones she'd worn in one of their paper bags, then checked her 
teeth when she mentioned that she'd bitten her assailant. 

"No usable hair with follicles," the CSR said, and Bobby 
turned back to her. 

"Just answer a few more questions and you can go look for 
your cat, okay? Tell me one more time what the guy looked 
like." 

She looked up. "You don't really listen, do you, Bobby. It 
was dark. He wore a mask. I never saw his face at all." 

"But after you pulled off his mask, what did you see?" 

"The back of his head." 

"And he was how tall?" 

"Damn, I don't know, I didn't take time to measure. I just 
thought that I should try to keep him here, and then he threw 
Frank across the room—" 

"Frank?" 

"Frank Burns. The ferret. I'm keeping him for Cami. I 
thought it was Sam, but it wasn't. By the way, when you do 
find the guy, he's going to have ferret fang marks all over his 
back and leg. Oh, and my teeth marks. Don't forget that I bit 
him on the arm. They already took impressions, so when we 

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do get this guy, they can match my teeth with his bitemark. 
That stuff tastes nasty, by the way." 

Bobby let out another long sigh. "Come home with me, 
Harley. I have a nice pullout couch, I'll even make you 
breakfast in the morning. Waffles. With pecans. Your 
favorite." 

"Another time. I have to be at Yogi's competition tonight, 
and it's probably almost over by now. He'll be wondering 
where I am." 

"Harley—" 

"I promised, Bobby. I have to go. You know I do." 

"All right. I'll put an extra guard on your apartment." 

She started to argue, then thought about it and nodded. 
"That'd be nice." 

After she'd called Cami to come help look for Sam and 
make sure Frank hadn't been hurt despite his apparently 
quick recovery, she went into the bathroom to clean up. Eek! 
Not even the most expensive gel had ever made her hair 
stand up like that before. A big red mark still showed on her 
cheekbone where he'd hit her, and she had a scratch on her 
chin. Collateral damage. 

By the time Cami got there to check over Frank, who 
seemed quite unconcerned about the evening's excitement as 
long as he had treats and toys, Harley had cleaned up as best 
she could and put on a clean pair of jeans and tee shirt. There 
wasn't much she could do with the hair. 

Cami stood just inside the door and looked at the mess in 
the living room. Frank's tank tilted oddly, but that was 

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because the coffee table did, too. "Your housekeeping skills 
really need some work, Harley." 

"I know. But at least my Tiffany lamp is all right. We just 
have to find Sam. I'm going to make my appearance for Yogi, 
then come back as quickly as I can to help, okay?" 

"He's probably not far, maybe in the bushes or on another 
balcony. Don't worry about him, Harley. He'll be just fine. 
Sam knows how to hide." 

"A skill I haven't quite mastered, it seems." 

"But at least you fought off the killer." 

"That's right, I did. Without needing to be rescued." She 
turned around, found Bobby standing by the balcony talking 
to a uniformed officer, and smiled. "Hey, Bobby, I didn't need 
rescuing!" 

He looked over at her. "What the hell do you call this?" 

"Late. By the time you guys got here, I had it all under 
control." 

"The hell you did. We found you cowering on the floor." 

"Did you find the killer? I thought not. Maybe he got away, 
but he didn't kill me." She turned back to look at Cami. "I feel 
better now. Thanks. Just find Sam for me and my night will 
be complete. Oh, and please keep Frank out of my panty 
drawer, will you? He's grown too fond of red lace bikinis. He 
and Tootsie would get along very well." 

Harley got to the contest just in time to see Yogi perform. 
Instead of the white jumpsuit, he wore fifties-style trousers 
and jacket. A guitar was slung across his body, and he 
grabbed a microphone on a stand, his posture reminiscent of 
one of Elvis's first concerts. He belted out the lyrics to 

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Heartbreak Hotel. Smiling, she leaned against the bar and 
watched. Really, he did quite well at sounding like Elvis. No 
one would ever be able to duplicate Elvis's distinctive voice 
and style, but that wasn't the point anyway. This was more 
homage than imitation. 

"He's pretty good," a low masculine voice said in her ear, 
and she didn't even have to turn around to recognize the 
voice. 

"Yes, he is. Did you make the finals?" She took a deep 
breath and leaned back against the bar to look up at Morgan. 
He had a mustache and beard, but it'd never disguise those 
electric blue eyes or that killer body. A blue pullover shirt 
molded to his broad chest and tucked into his black shorts. 
Long, bare legs were muscled and hard. 

"Unfortunately, no," he said. "Someone blew my cover." 

"That's terrible," she said with all the innocence she could 
muster. 

"Yeah. What happened to your face?" 

"A little accident." 

"And your hair?" 

"Even bigger accident. So why are you here if your cover's 
been blown?" 

"It's the damnedest thing. I got assigned to keep an eye 
on you for the next two nights." 

"I'll just bet. You should have been on the job a little 
earlier. You might have caught the killer." 

"I'd heard that." 

"Which explains your presence here, of course. And I 
thought it might be my charm." 

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Morgan's mouth tilted. "So who rescued you this time?" 

"Well now, it's the damnedest thing. No one. The killer got 
the worst of the deal and took off for parts unknown." 

"So now you think you can take care of yourself just fine, I 
see." 

"I don't do too badly." 

He blew out a disgusted sigh that was far too reminiscent 
of those she heard from Bobby. "Riiight. Never mind," he 
added when she put her hands on her hips, "just think of me 
as your temporary bodyguard, here to guard your body." 

"Guard my body? I assume you don't mean in the more 
familiar manner." 

"That part's up to you." 

"Odd, I don't remember being given that option before." 

Morgan just looked at her. A tingle went to her toes. She 
tried to think of something smart to say, but all that came out 
was, "What happened to my other bodyguard?" 

"He's off-duty. I've been assigned to keep you safe." 

"So who's going to keep me safe from you?" 

"You're safe. For now." 

That could be either ominous or promising, and as she was 
trying to decide which, music crashed in the room, people 
clapped appreciation, and up on the stage Yogi caught a pair 
of what looked like panties flung at him. Harley stuck her 
fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly a few times. Maybe 
he heard her, since he looked in the direction of the bar and 
grinned. Really, Yogi certainly knew how to have a good time. 
In fact, she couldn't recall when her parents worried a lot 

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about life events, though they did protest those they disliked. 

Often vehemently. 

She looked back at Mike. 

His attention was no longer on her. Something across the 
room had caught his eye, and he looked suddenly intent, 
muscles taut. He said, "Don't go anywhere yet," and 
disappeared into the crowd that surged back and forth toward 
the stage like ocean surf. 

Harley put her hands on her hips. So much for watching 
out for her. Any bodyguard who got distracted so easily 
needed to be guarding someone else. She headed toward the 
right side of the stage, where Diva should be. Her mother's 
shining pale hair stood out in the crowd, swinging from the 
crown of her head down her back in a French braid. Stray 
wisps framed her face when she turned to look at Harley. 

"I knew you'd make it here in time." 

"Then you were the only one. I probably broke ten traffic 
laws getting here." 

Diva put an arm around her shoulders. "And now you're 
here." 

"Is Yogi going to win?" 

"Yes, but not the competition. Don't worry. It really will be 
all right." 

"Okay. Uh, did you notice my face, by any chance?" 

Diva smiled. "Don't you feel better knowing that you didn't 
need to be rescued?" 

"Actually, yes. I do. Not only did I get to say an In your 
face to Bobby as well as Morgan, I feel like I finally managed 
to redeem myself." 

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"The ways of the universe are many and mysterious." 

At times, Harley expected her mother to add Grasshopper 
at the end of her sentences. But she only replied, "They must 
be." 

"Would you like to come to a yoga class next week? We're 
having it in the living room." 

"No, thanks. Turning myself into a human pretzel has 
never been one of my favorite activities." 

"A pity. You were very limber as a child. It would do a lot 
to relax you. And I'm serving willow bark tea." 

Ugh. "That's just aspirin in its liquid form. You may need it 
after the class." 

Diva smiled her serene smile, and then turned as Yogi 
reached them. Elation put a big grin on his face. "That was 
my best performance ever!" 

"It certainly was," Diva agreed. "Soon, everyone will 
remember you." 

Yogi looked pleased and Harley had an uneasy flash of 
memory. Diva had said that before, and it hadn't exactly 
sounded like a good thing. But maybe it'd be all right. Or 
maybe not. 

"Don't go to the vigil," she said abruptly to her father. 

Yogi blinked. "Why not? It's an honor, all five finalists 
leading thousands to the garden. I wouldn't miss it for 
anything. Why wouldn't you want me to go?" 

Harley honestly couldn't say why she felt a sense of 
foreboding. That was more Diva's specialty. But Diva devoutly 
believed in good karma and the universe. Harley didn't. 

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"I don't know," she said when it seemed like Yogi really did 
expect an answer. 

He came close and patted her on the shoulder. 

"That's all right, sunshine. I don't have to win. This has 
been my best performance ever, and I'm happy." 

Harley looked to her mother for confirmation, but Diva 
wasn't much help. Even in the dim lights of the club, with all 
the din and chaos around them, Diva looked serene and 
beautiful. It was easy to see her as she'd always seen her 
mother, beautiful, almost mystical, with a graceful way of 
moving confidently through the world, as if nothing or no one 
could rattle her. Maybe that's what Harley should strive for, 
that sense of peace with herself and her world. So far, it 
eluded her. But that didn't mean it always would. 

"Yogi," Eric said, shouldering his way through the crowd, 
"you're the king, dude. You're the king." He and Yogi did that 
hand thing Harley never could quite figure out, not that she 
had the least desire to do so. Then Eric looked over at her. 
"Cool chick. Who's been chewing on your hair?" 

"I can't believe you have the nerve to say anything to me 
about my hair. Especially when you look like you've been 
peed on by a rainbow." 

Eric stroked a hand across his hair, bright blue and yellow 
streaks vivid against his natural dark brown. "You don't like 
it? It's only temporary." 

"Keep dying your hair and it'll be only temporary, too." 
Harley looked over at her father. "I can't stay long, only until 
they announce the winner. Sam's gone and I have to find 
him." 

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If anyone would understand the urgency about looking for 
a lost pet, it was Yogi. After all, it'd been the abduction of the 
larcenous King that had first sent her entire family into the 
world of jewelry thieves and murderers. 

"Sam is fine," Diva said. "He's with the groundhog." 

"Groundhog? You mean, like the animal?" 

"No, I don't think so." Diva frowned slightly. "It just 
popped into my head so I said it. I'm not sure why." 

"Good thing I don't always say what just pops into my 
head," Harley muttered, then said, "I'll see what I can figure 
out. I'm glad he's okay." 

A microphone crackled and popped, and the contest 
organizer announced it was time to count down to the winner 
of this year's competition. All attention turned toward the 
stage. 

It occurred to her as the tension in the room grew palpable 
that this was rather like the flip version of Miss America 
competitions, only without the bathing suit contests. Morgan 
could have won on looks alone, although he'd probably have 
been eliminated when it came to the congeniality portion. 
Yogi would have won that. 

Thinking of Morgan, she wondered just where he'd gone. If 
he was really supposed to be her bodyguard for the evening, 
he'd lost track of her body and she was almost ready to go. 
Not that she was nervous about leaving alone. 

Okay, she was nervous about leaving alone. Recent events 
suggested it was a bit risky to run around by herself. 
Whatever this killer's identity, he had to be certifiably insane. 

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The fact that he'd waited for her in the dark privacy of her 
apartment wasn't at all what he was supposed to do. 

Either he was changing tactics or getting desperate. 
Neither of those options made her feel any better. 

Thankfully, her attention was diverted from grim 
speculation by the excitement from Yogi as only he and 
Preston Hughes were left as contestants. Hughes had been 
pitch-perfect, but didn't have the heart Yogi did. Maybe that 
was just her opinion—like the opinion she had that the man 
was probably a bold, vicious killer. He should still be in jail. 
She hadn't a clue why he was here as if he had no problems 
at all, when he should be wearing an orange jumpsuit in a cell 
with a big guy named Bubba as his significant other. 

Then the announcer named Yogi as the first runner-up, 
and he gleefully went up the stairs to the stage and took his 
bow as if he'd just been named Leader of the Free World. It 
never ceased to amaze Harley that Yogi let few 
disappointments bother him. The crowd roared its approval of 
his shimmy, shake, and curl of his upper lip, so that Hughes's 
acceptance of the trophy and title of King was almost 
overshadowed. 

"You were wonderful," she told her father when she'd 
finally made her way through the crowd to his side, and gave 
him a kiss on the cheek. "If Hughes hadn't made bail, you'd 
have won this one." 

Yogi's broad grin acknowledged her faith in him. He looked 
jubilant. "Next year, the title. Tomorrow night, the candlelight 
vigil. Don't forget." 

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"I won't." As if she could. She'd already set herself out as 
bait once, but caught the wrong fish. Maybe this time she'd 
get it right. 

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Chapter Eighteen 

Morgan followed her home, driving an undercover car 
police used to escape notice. Until he showed up at her side 
as she got ready to leave, she hadn't seen him since he'd 
blown her off. He'd had some lame excuse that he'd been 
watching over her the entire night, but he must have hidden 
really well. 

He parked the battered gray Pontiac right in front of her 
building. Not exactly what she'd consider unobtrusive, but 
maybe that was the point. Harley parked in back next to 
Cami's Saturn, and by the time she cut off her headlights and 
locked the car Morgan stood by the back door. 

"Looking for anyone special, sailor?" she asked breezily, 
and he shook his head. 

"Just doing my job, ma'am." He opened the door for her. 
"I'll be out here all night, in the heat with the mosquitoes." 

"Is that a hint to be invited inside?" 

He just smiled. 

So much for that. Not that she wanted him to come inside. 
Really. Okay, so she did, but it had nothing to do with lust, 
just security. Mostly, anyway. 

"Better move your car if you don't want to be seen," she 
advised. "Or is that the idea?" 

"It might be a deterrent. Run along inside like a good girl 
so I can skulk back to the car to watch over you." 

"I feel so safe." Prompted by an inner devil that usually got 
her into trouble, she stepped closer to him and playfully ran 

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her fingers down the front of his shirt. "And I'm much more 
fun when I'm a bad girl," she added huskily, and saw heat 
flare in his eyes. A muscle leaped in his jaw and just when it 
seemed as if he was about to say something, she ran the tip 
of her tongue over her top lip and stepped back. "'Night, 
copper." 

If he answered, she didn't wait to hear it but scooted 
inside and up the stairs. One more second standing on the 
stoop with him, and she'd have said something she'd probably 
regret. 

The door to her apartment was locked and she used her 
key. Cami stood in the middle of the living room, surrounded 
by wreckage that looked as if she'd attempted to tidy up. Her 
short blond hair had damp streaks in front of her ears and on 
the nape of her neck, and she looked completely frazzled. She 
turned to Harley. 

"I've looked everywhere for him. It's dark now, but I went 
out looking while it was still light. I guess I could again. I 
have this flashlight, and should be able to see him in the 
dark. It's the eyes, you know, they shine like flat circles—if 
he's gone across the street to the zoo, he might end up as a 
snack for the lions. Oh, I can't stand this." 

Harley said quickly, "Diva assures me that Sam is just fine. 
He's off somewhere with a groundhog." 

Cami blinked. "A groundhog? Like the animal?" 

"She doesn't think so. You know Diva. All her messages 
are so cryptic. I keep thinking I should know, but the only 
thing that comes to me right now is the mole that King's been 
after in Mrs. Shipley's yard. There's something else I'm 

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supposed to be remembering, but it's not coming to me. God, 
what a mess. Sam could be hiding somewhere in here, for all 
we know." 

Broken glass, shards of a lamp, and something she didn't 
want to look at too closely on one of the chair cushions, 
turned her usually-neat apartment into a rubbish dump. It 
was obvious Cami had done what she could, but it needed a 
complete overhaul. 

"You know," Harley reflected aloud, "if I'm going to keep 
getting involved in situations where people feel compelled to 
try to kill me, I really need to get indestructible furniture. Or 
a maid." 

"Or a security guard stationed at your door." 

"Even better. How very practical of you." 

"Where can we look next?" Cami ran a hand through her 
hair, and sweaty strands stuck out like Dagwood Bumstead's 
hair. "I've searched every cabinet, drawer, under your bed— 
by the way, that's not a good place to store Old Faithful." 

"Old Faithful? Ah. Yes. Well, I haven't really needed it in a 
long time, and forgot about it being there. The batteries are 
probably run down by now. I should get some more in this 
time of need, I suppose." 

"Better clean it first. It's pretty dusty. But much more 
discreet than that wooden penis you keep on your dresser." 

"That's a souvenir, a reminder to duck when people are 
shooting at me." 

"You need a reminder for that? Jeez, Harley. But back to 
the problem at hand. Do you still think Sam went over your 
balcony?" 

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"I'm fairly sure. He was really spooked. We'll look outside." 

Cami glanced doubtfully at the French doors, now closed 
and locked. "I don't know..." 

"It's safe. Morgan's hiding out there waiting to pounce on 
any evil Elvis that comes by. Pretend you don't notice him. I 
think he's sensitive about getting his cover blown." 

After searching inside, they went outside and searched in 
the bushes again, each armed with a flashlight. Privet hedges 
stretched on one side of the yard, and bushes next to the 
building were kept neatly trimmed at waist-high level. The 
front yard gas lamp put out enough feeble light to barely see 
the green and white caladiums thriving in scalloped 
flowerbeds, but it was too dark to see the vivid hues of red 
and pink begonias. Dark shadows made a huge pool beneath 
the low, spreading branches of the magnolia tree. Sam could 
be anywhere. 

After crawling under the bushes next to the building, 
calling kitty, kitty, kitty as softly as she could so no one would 
call the cops on her at midnight, Harley sat down on the 
bricked front stoop. She cut off her flashlight and blew out a 
frustrated breath. Over at one side of the house, Cami still 
made her cat noises, strange sounds she interspersed with 
"Here Kitty"' calls. 

"What was that?" Harley asked Cami when she gave up 
and came to sit on the front stoop beside her. 

"Cat in heat noises. Sam doesn't know he's been 
neutered." 

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"Sounded more like cat being strangled noises." She 
shuddered and made a sign from her forehead to her chest, 
then crossed herself. 

"Catholic school training sticks, doesn't it," Cami said with 
a sigh. "But don't worry about that happening to Sam. He 
takes care of himself really well." 

"I know. So does Frank Burns. I should take lessons from 
the animal kingdom." 

"It'd help both of us. I'll set the trap I brought and bait it 
with some tuna flakes, and you check it first thing in the 
morning." 

"It's not one of those things that traps his paw, is it?" 

"Lord no, Harley, you know better than that. It's humane, 
a cage with a trap door. Once he gets in to eat the food, the 
door snaps shut and he's trapped." 

"Try Chinese rather than tuna," Harley suggested. "He 
particularly likes shrimp fried rice." 

Cami stood up. "No wonder Sam loves you. He'll just have 
to take what I brought with me this time. You can use egg 
rolls or sushi or whatever if he's not in it in the morning." 

"The only sushi he likes is salmon. My favorite is the 
California roll." 

"Somehow, I'm not surprised." 

After Cami set the trap, sliding a can of reddish tuna flakes 
just for cats to the back of the wire mesh cage, they situated 
it next to the house behind the bushes, and at the foot of the 
white trellis that held some kind of climbing greenery. They 
crawled out of the beds and brushed dirt and mulch from 

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their hands and legs. The gray Pontiac still sat under a 
streetlight at the curb. 

"I wonder if that's how the killer got down so quickly," 
Harley mused, staring at the trellis she'd never really paid 
attention to before. "It looks pretty sturdy, not like the cheap, 
flimsy ones." 

Cami turned to peer at the white trellis against the 
shadowed brick. "More than likely. The police were down here 
earlier pouring plaster into footprints." 

"Ever efficient." Harley couldn't resist one last call of kitty, 
kitty, kitty before they went in, but there was no answering 
miaoow or indignant yowl. "Strangely," she said, "I don't 
want to go to bed without Sam there to irritate me. He likes 
to bite my feet when I wiggle my toes." 

"Kinky. But I told you that you're a cat person." 

"As much as it pains me to admit it, you must be right." 

After Cami left, Harley worked on straightening up the 
apartment. Police had dusted for fingerprints that left a fine 
black powder over everything, a complete bust since the guy 
had worn gloves. They'd taken a few things with them, but 
she had no idea why. Maybe they thought they'd find 
fingerprints or DNA. If they wanted DNA, they should have 
taken Frank with them. He probably still had bits of the killer 
between his teeth. 

"Don't you, Frank?" she leaned over the tank and asked. 
"Do you still have bits of the bad guy between your sharp 
little fangs? Or is that red lace I see?" She peered closer into 
the tank, but Frank obviously had other things on his mind. 
Cami must have given him more treats, because he barely 

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paid any attention to the face hanging over the top of the 
tank. She wondered how she must look to him, magnified by 
the glass, and her face a collage of fleshy spots between wire 
mesh. Not that he seemed to care either way, as long as he 
had a piece of apple and a few raisins. Those were raisins, 
weren't they? Eww. Maybe looking close was a bad idea. 

Straightening up, she decided the rest of the mess could 
wait. Tomorrow loomed long and fraught with apprehension, 
anyway. A good night's rest, if not sleep, would go a long way 
toward keeping her coherent. Besides, with Morgan outside 
her apartment watching over her, it was about as safe as it 
could get. 

That led to thoughts about how safe she'd be if Morgan 
was inside her apartment instead of outside, and that line of 
thought was dangerous. Maybe not so much to her body as to 
her peace of mind. Well, maybe just a little to her body, since 
it still got these heated tingles in parts she'd rather not think 
about right now. Hm. It could be time to dust off Old Faithful, 
but it still wouldn't compensate for the real thing. 

She fanned her face with her hands. Time to think about 
something else. Anything else. 

After a hot shower and thorough shampoo, she brushed 
her teeth, put Neosporin on all the cuts she'd sustained 
during the struggle, and put on a pair of men's boxers she'd 
bought at Target. Great to sleep in, she'd discovered. A 
moment's deliberation about the risks of being awakened 
unexpectedly led her to put on a wife-beater just in case. The 
sleeveless tee shirt covered her and wasn't uncomfortable to 
sleep in. Then she went to her balcony and called for Sam 

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again, just on the off-chance he might pop up and say Here I 

am! in cat-speak. 

He didn't. 

She locked the French doors and shoved a chair in front of 
them, then triple-checked the locks on the hall door. A 
precaution. She wasn't really scared, just prepared. Yep. It 
was always smart to be prepared. "A good thing," as Martha 
Stewart would say. Only she usually meant crepes Suzette or 
baskets of painted pine cones, not arming herself against a 
killer. 

While the lock on her bedroom door wasn't as sturdy, it'd 
at least slow an intruder long enough to give her time to 
shake her canister of Mace. After a moment's thought, she 
took the wooden penis off her dresser and put it on the 
nightstand, too. All she needed was Nana's gun and she'd 
qualify as a mobster. But a girl could never have too many 
weapons these days. So now she had her cell phone within 
easy reach and Morgan's number at the top of the list, and 
the house phone positioned just right. She was ready for 
anything. 

Then, clad in her Looney Tunes men's boxers and the kind 
of tee shirt men who beat their wives usually wore, she went 
to bed and tried to relax enough to sleep. Of course she lay 
awake a long time, tensing at any strange sound, half-
expecting an Elvis to leap out from the shadows. Out in the 
living room, Frank chuckled to himself. She considered 
bringing him into the bedroom, not so much as an attack-
ferret, but as company. It felt precariously solitary, an 
unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling she didn't like at all. 

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Tomorrow, this would hopefully all be over, with the bad 
Elvis in custody. All she had to do was stay alert. Still, her 
stomach clenched and her heart thumped. 

She squeezed her eyes shut and pretended she was back 
in California that long-ago day Yogi had held her on his 
shoulders so she could release a balloon above the Golden 
Gate Bridge. She'd been four or five, but she still 
remembered it as vividly as if it had been yesterday. It had 
been a red balloon, bright against the blue sky as it soared 
toward a light drift of clouds. They'd watched it until it was 
only a tiny speck in the distance, pushed by wind currents to 
the unknown. For her, it'd been a magical moment that she'd 
held close, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe it had 
something to do with being free, though she'd never really 
felt constraints in her childhood. Yogi and Diva believed in 
letting children discover the world at their own pace. While 
Eric thrived on that kind of thing, she'd yearned for more 
structure. 

And for indoor toilets. Living in a commune with outdoor 
showers and toilets had been free, but also free of life's 
amenities. That's when she discovered that she must be a 
hedonist, because she liked her comfort too much. It'd been 
quite a relief to move to Memphis and a real house with 
indoor plumbing. Maybe she didn't lie under the open sky and 
stars anymore, but she didn't worry about snakes crawling 
into bed with her, either. 

Life had its perks. 

Sleep didn't come quickly. For a long time after the 
apartment was dark and quiet, she lay awake. Fragments of 

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conversations flew at her like bats in the night. A groundhog. 
Hughes on bail bond. Williams has an alibi. Penney's son 
might want to hurt his father. Then: "The past is following 
you, but it's not your past. You're caught in between. Elvis 
isn't dead, he's hiding. He finds you in the candlelight ... but 
it's not really you..." 

What on earth did Diva mean by that? It seemed like she 
should know, and something hovered just beyond reach, 
teasing her. How maddening. This had to stop or she'd never 
sleep. She closed her eyes and focused on the balloon again, 
the polished blue of the sky and clouds scudding by, the feel 
of the wind in her face and her father holding onto her legs so 
she wouldn't fall from his shoulders to the ground. The 
balloon rose so high, higher and higher as she watched it drift 
away... 

Suddenly, a hawk appeared in the sky right next to the 
balloon. It soared on wind currents, wings outspread as it 
glided toward the balloon. Talons pierced the thin rubber and 
the balloon popped with a loud noise she heard clearly. 
Shocked, she yelled at the hawk to go away, but it was too 
late. Shreds of bright red fell from the sky and the hawk 
made a keening sound like laughter. 

Yogi swung her down from his shoulders to the ground. He 
bent, scooped up a rock and threw it at the hawk. The hawk 
dove toward them from the sky, screaming furiously and 
looking like a small feathered bomber. Instead of aiming for 
Yogi, the predator went straight for Harley. 

Shouting angrily, Yogi threw himself in front of her and 
took the brunt of the attack. Talons sunk into his shoulder as 

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he fought the creature. Harley rushed at the combatants, not 
sure what to do, but knowing she had to do something. Sharp 
talons raked her, and she screamed but didn't let go until the 
hawk lay on the ground with a broken wing. Yogi started 
shaking her. 

"Harley! Harley! You're all right, wake up!" 

She jerked upright in her bed, heart still pounding hard as 
a jackhammer. Light stung her eyes and she blinked, but 
instead of Yogi, Morgan shook her. She sucked in a deep 
breath. 

"What are you doing here? And how did you get in?" 

He shrugged. "Easily enough, if you know how. Did you 
see anyone?" 

"No. It was just a nightmare, I guess." She shuddered. 

"Well, it scared the hell out of me. I thought maybe 
Kirkland had let the perp get by him." 

"Who's Kirkland?" 

Morgan sat down on the end of her bed. "The back door 
guard." 

"Oh. So I rate two guards?" 

He grinned. "Not so much you as the killer." 

"Well, that's deflating. And here I thought I might be 
important." 

"Only to some of us, babe." 

Her eyebrow rose. "I note that you included yourself in 
that group." 

Instead of replying, he bent forward and kissed her hard 
on the mouth, his hands moving to her shoulders, then up to 

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cradle her face. Oh boy. There went that tingle again, all the 
way to her toes. 

"Want me to send Kirkland home?" Mike asked right about 
the time her bones melted to jelly. His mouth was still close 
to hers, too close, and his hands had moved from her 
shoulders to the front of her wife-beater. 

"I suppose I'd be safer with you inside than outside," she 
managed to murmur. 

"Not really, sugar, not really." 

"I take it our break is over?" 

"As over as it can get." 

"Send Kirkland packing." 

He did. 

* * * * 

"You look pretty mellow for someone who's going to be 
bait in a little while," Tootsie said when she showed up at the 
office the next morning. He squinted at her. "Ah. You got 
some." 

"Got some what? Oh. Why do you think that?" 

"You have that—" 

"I know that 'just laid' look. Honestly, you'd think I was 
wearing a sign or something." 

"I'm assuming you were with Mighty Mike Morgan. Are you 
two back together?" 

She flopped into an office chair and it wheeled several feet 
before she stopped it. Using her heels, she dragged it back 
toward the desk. "Who knows? It wasn't mentioned. We, um, 
had other things to talk about." 

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Pursing his lips, Tootsie said, "I'm quite sure." 

She ignored that. "I suppose you've heard all about last 
night's excitement." 

Tootsie punched a buzzing button, sounding a bit harried 
as he tried to fit in more tourists to the already busy 
schedule. Another nice article in the Commercial Appeal had 
helped business and lessened fears about MTT being unsafe. 

"Of course, I did," Tootsie said when he'd finished the call. 
"I think the entire police department heard about it. Steve 
said this is the weirdest case they've had in a while." 

"Weirder than the city coroner having a bomb fastened to 
his chest with barbed wire? And then being charged with 
doing it himself? He got acquitted eventually. Can you 
imagine anyone would wrap themselves in barbed wire?" 

"No, but that was a few years ago. We're talking recent." 
He ran his hands through his hair and retied it in a pony tail 
at the nape of his neck. Faint lines furrowed his brow. "I know 
you're set on this thing tonight, but I'd rather you reconsider. 
It's going to be so crowded, and I just don't see how the 
police can protect you that well." 

"Of all people, I'd think you'd have more faith in the MPD." 

"I have faith in the police, just not the sanity of a killer. 
This one's got to be crazy to do what he's done. He doesn't 
care if it's in plain sight, and the really scary part is that he's 
gotten away with it so far. Rather clever of him to disguise 
himself as Elvis in a crowd of Elvises, but I'm not much in the 
mood to admire his planning." 

Harley would have answered, but Rhett Sandler chose that 
moment to appear at Tootsie's desk. 

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"You were right. Someone's hacked into the computers," 
he said in his nasal monotone. "I don't know how much 
information they managed to access." 

Despite his impeccable gray suit, black-rimmed glasses, 
and natty little white handkerchief sticking up out of his 
breast pocket, he looked distraught. It wasn't that easy to 
tell, since he rarely had any expression at all. Emotions were 
mostly expressed with his eyebrows, black fur that blended in 
with his glasses. Now they met in the middle over his nose. 

"This one, too," Tootsie said. "I put up some firewalls, but 
a smart enough hacker can still get in if he's determined 
enough." He blew out a heavy breath. "Just what we need 
right now." 

"Did you ever find out if the guy who embezzled MTT is still 
in prison?" Harley asked. 

Tootsie nodded. "Locked up tight at the white-collar spa in 
Millington. He's probably in their library or working out with 
weights. Hardly payback for nearly sucking the well dry." 

"Yes," Monotone Man said, "a good thing you came along 
to invest." 

Harley looked from Sandler to Tootsie. "I knew it! No 
wonder you've been so panicky. You stand to lose money, 
too." 

Tootsie's mouth pursed, and the look he gave Sandler 
should have scorched his professional strength gray socks. 
"How indiscreet of you." 

Sandler's expression didn't change. "My apologies." 

Harley smiled. "One mystery solved. Next thing I know, 
there'll be an actual Steve-sighting to prove he exists." 

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"How droll of you," Tootsie said, but she could tell he 
wasn't angry, only annoyed at being outted as more than a 
mere employee. 

"I'm sure you'll share your reasoning for being so 
secretive." She waggled her brows. 

"Don't hold your breath." 

Harley smiled. 

Sandler said, with what passed for impatience, "I've traced 
the identity of the hacker, but the police must become 
involved now." 

"Yes, the police will definitely be involved." Tootsie paused, 
and then added, "I have a feeling that they already know 
more than we do anyway." 

"Quite likely," Sandler said, then pivoted on his heel and 
walked back to his office down the hall. 

"Have you ever noticed that he walks like a penguin?" 
Harley mused. 

"I'd describe it as more like he's got a stick up his ass. But 
he's good at what he does, so I have no complaints." 

"So the last guy who had his job stole a lot of money?" 

"Quite a bit. If not for my investment, Penney would most 
likely have folded. Fortunately, we came to an agreement— 
that you are not to tell any of the other employees. I prefer 
being one of the rank and file, not one of the bosses." 

"That's so modest of you." Harley crossed her legs and 
swung a foot back and forth. "Tell me about the last 
accountant. Did you know him?" 

"I met him several times. I started out here as a driver, 
and when my grandmother died she left me a tidy sum that I 

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decided to invest here and there. Unfortunately, Horton 
objected. It got tense around here for a while, but then he 
got caught embezzling so it didn't matter." 

"How'd Horton get caught?" 

Tootsie looked a little uncomfortable. "Well, I'm the one 
who discovered the discrepancy when the books were 
examined before I invested. It was supposed to be routine, 
but it turned out to be a nightmare. Horton didn't take it 
kindly." 

"I imagine not." Harley swung her foot a little harder, 
thinking. "So Horton—every time I hear that name I think of 
the Dr. Seuss book, Horton Helps A Who—went to prison?" 

"I thought it was Horton Hears A Who." 

"Whichever. Anyway, I take it he went to prison." 

"Ten to twenty. He's been there four years now." 

"You checked and he's still there, but he has motive to 
want to ruin MTT. Maybe he's on work release?" 

"Not from prison, no. I checked. What would he have to 
gain anyway?" 

While Tootsie answered another incoming call, Harley 
mulled this new possibility. Really, he seemed like the most 
likely candidate, other than Hughes or Larry Penney. 

"There's no shortage of suspects," she said when Tootsie 
finished the call and typed in the information on the 
computer. "Horton could have had a partner in crime, maybe, 
and just didn't rat him out. Maybe it's his partner who's doing 
this." 

"What would he gain?" 

"Revenge." 

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"By killing innocent people? That's pretty sick." 

"As you've said a few times, there's no shortage of sickos 
in the world." 

"Lord knows I've met my share of them," Tootsie 
muttered. "Still, it's impossible for Horton to be behind this. 
Prisons usually monitor prisoners' mail pretty closely, and 
honestly I just don't think he's slick enough to carry it off. 
Vengeful enough, maybe, but not the kind who could sit in a 
van full of tourists and stick a knife in one of them." 

"But if he has a partner?" 

Tootsie shook his head. "No evidence of one. Besides, 
Horton's too greedy to share." 

"Maybe he figured better some than none." 

"Not Horton. He made less than $40,000 a year, but he 
had a huge house in Countrywood, a couple of really 
expensive cars, and his kid went to the best private schools. 
MTT didn't make enough to support that life-style and share it 
with anyone else." 

"Okay, you've convinced me. It's not him. Bobby says it's 
not Hughes, so unless it's just a wacko out to rid the world of 
Elvis impersonators, it has to be the ogre's son. How old is 
he?" 

"Twenty-eight. I've got a photo of him somewhere." He 
rummaged in the desk drawers then pulled out a folder of 
photos. "Company picnic. He's standing beside Penney." 

Harley stared at the photo with interest. "I didn't know the 
ogre could smile. Good thing he doesn't do it too often. It 
looks strange." 

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Larry Penney stared unsmiling at the camera. He looked to 
be near six feet and pretty thin. Maybe it was the drugs. "It 
could be him," she said slowly, "he's about the right build." 

"I don't think it's him. He's in and out of rehab too much to 
spend time plotting murders." 

"Who's this guy?" She tapped her finger against the photo. 

Tootsie peered at it. "That's Horton. His youngest son is 
right beside him." 

"How old was he in this picture?" 

"Somewhere around twelve, I think." 

"Maybe he's the one." 

"I doubt it. He moved to Hawaii with his mother." 

"He could have come back, you know." 

"From Hawaii?" Tootsie stared at her in disbelief. "Who'd 
want to move from Hawaii?" 

Exasperated, she put her hands on her hips. "Then we're 
all out of suspects." 

"So it seems. Aren't you relieved? Now you can stay home 
tonight." 

She rolled her eyes. "You're as bad as Bobby. Pretending 
we're out of suspects isn't a good enough reason not to go 
all-out to catch this guy." 

"I see you won't be swayed. I'll pick you up at six." 

"Remember, wear something discreet." 

"Darling, I told you, I'll be the very soul of discretion." 

* * * * 

Harley stared at Tootsie. "You call this discreet?" 

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Unruffled, he gave an elegant shrug of one shoulder. 
"Don't you like it?" 

"Who are you supposed to be?" 

"Priscilla Presley, of course." 

"Ah. Now I see it. Who else would it be?" 

Tootsie wore a wig, the light brown bobbed hair liberally 
streaked with maroon, looking very much like Elvis's ex-wife 
now wore her hair. From what Harley could tell, he also wore 
a black leather miniskirt, a gorgeous luminous bronze silk 
blouse and expensive Prada heels. 

"A bit much with the heels, don't you think?" she asked, 
but he shook his head. 

"Not at all. Priscilla has style." 

Harley slid into the buttery-soft leather seat and closed the 
car door. "I feel underdressed. You should have told me you'd 
be in disguise tonight." 

"Girlfriend, you're always underdressed. And someone has 
to be in disguise, since you've decided to paint a bulls-eye on 
your back." 

"Surely you're not talking about my shirt." 

Snorting, Tootsie put the Acura in gear and took off from 
the curb outside her building. As he sped off, Harley looked 
back, and to her surprise, saw Sarah Simon peering out her 
living room window. Wow. That was a rare sighting, rather 
like Punxsutawny Phil. If Sarah was seen, there was sure to 
be six more weeks of Elvis festivities. 

"Yes," Tootsie said, turning onto Poplar, "I'm talking about 
your tee shirt. Could it be any more noticeable?" 

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"You're one to talk, Priscilla. Besides, green is a good color 
for me." 

"Neon green? You look like a leprechaun puked on you." 

"Since you're kind enough to worry if I get killed, I'll 
refrain from mentioning your black leather miniskirt, even if I 
do think you'd be right at home on the back of a hog with 
some guy named Mad Dog or Killer." 

"As intriguing as that sounds, I'll blend right in tonight. I 
predict I'll even be asked to sign autographs." 

"Modesty dies a quick death in your company, I see." 
Harley leaned her head back against the seat. "Besides, this 
tee shirt is loose and hides the wire I'm wearing. A 
policewoman wired me up, but I got this shirt in New Orleans. 
A rather pithy motto, I think." 

"You shuck 'em, I'll suck 'em refers to crawfish or oysters I 
presume." 

"Well, of course. Not that I will, though. I don't like either. 
I just like this tee shirt." 

Sunlight glinted off the Acura's hood and into her eyes, 
and she lowered the visor. "Damn. I forgot my sunglasses." 

"We don't really have time to go back. I think I have an 
extra pair in the glove box." 

Harley found a pair of bright red cat-eye sunglasses 
crusted with rhinestones. She put them on and turned to look 
at him. "Look at me. I'm Elton John." 

"Sir Elton John." He glanced at her. "Come to think of it, 
there is a strong resemblance." 

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She said something quite rude and sat back. "I can't 
believe I forgot my sunglasses. I lost track of time while I was 
hunting for Sam, I guess." 

"Still no sign of him?" 

She shook her head. "No. He's probably at the zoo teasing 
the lions and standing in line for his cut of their dinner." 

"Sam's too selfish to share. He also likes his creature 
comforts. He'll be back." 

"Unless he's gotten lost, or hurt, or..." She didn't want to 
think about the implications. "We're supposed to meet Yogi 
and the other finalists at the Heartbreak Hotel, and then take 
a van from there up to the Perpetual Garden." 

"If it wasn't for the killer lying in wait to slaughter us all, 
I'd be excited about this. I've never been to Graceland." 

"What? You've never been to Graceland? As many times as 
you've booked tours, given the spiel, even driven the vans, 
you've never been in the mansion?" 

"Not once. I did go around back one time looking for a lost 
German and found him sitting in one of the cars—EPE was 
polite about it, but not at all understanding, I might add—but 
other than that, I've never crossed the threshold." 

"Amazing." 

"Isn't it? Tonight will be another adventure for me." 

"Let's hope that's all it is." 

Tootsie looked over at her, and she knew they were both 
thinking the same thing. Tonight it was going to be "do or die 
trying." 

Yogi and Diva were waiting for them at the Heartbreak 
Hotel. The large pink structure sat just across the street from 

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Graceland, convenient to tourists and much safer than 
walking the area at night. Sad to say, this neighborhood of 
nice homes and quiet living had gradually turned into a 
collage of car lots, Elvis-related tourist traps, and high-traffic 
that lured more than just people who came to honor their 
idol. When Elvis was still alive, it'd been an upscale 
neighborhood called Graceland, the white mansion being just 
one more nice house among several big houses set back on 
wooded lots from Highway 51. The mansion had been named 
for the neighborhood. Who knew that one day it'd be an icon 
recognized around the world? After his mother died and 
Vernon wed again, Elvis bought his father and his new wife a 
house on the next street and put a gate through the back 
fence for easy access. Vernon Presley died after Elvis, and the 
gate no longer existed. 

Despite silent reassurances that everything would be fine, 
Harley's stomach knotted and her heart thumped an 
escalated beat against her ribs. When they walked into the 
hotel lobby, Yogi saw her and Tootsie immediately. He came 
toward them through the crowd, his eyes a little wide when 
he looked at Tootsie. 

"You look just like Priscilla," he said. 

Apparently, he was right, because people stared at them 
and whispered, and a few clutched autograph books a little 
tighter, as if poised to advance. 

"Except for the Adam's apple," Harley pointed out. "And 
he's taller." 

"Small details," Tootsie said with a smile. "You should have 
come as Lisa Marie." 

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"Then how would the killer recognize me?" 

"Good point." 

"Is, uh, everyone here?" Harley asked her father. 

He said Eric couldn't come. "A music gig tonight. Train 
crash music." 

Harley looked at her mother. Diva smiled. "The cards say 
you'll be fine." 

"Great." She barely refrained from rolling her eyes. She'd 
never had much faith in the cards. It just seemed 
preposterous that painted card stock could tell the future. 
Harley had decided that Diva really used tarot as props for 
her own uncanny abilities. Years of experience should have 
convinced her that Diva possessed a sixth sense, but 
pragmatism always interfered. Maybe it was she who was 
different, not her mother. 

But what if Diva was wrong? It could happen. 

Still, Harley felt much better when she finally spied 
Morgan. He drifted through the crowd aimlessly, never 
looking their way. The dark beard and mustache wouldn't fool 
anyone who knew him well, but maybe the killer would be too 
focused on her to notice. 

That thought made her stomach jump again. 

"It's about to start," Yogi said excitedly, and Harley turned 
to see Claude Williams at the hotel doors, escorting Preston 
Hughes and the finalists toward a waiting van. 

Williams gave a start when he saw Harley and Tootsie, his 
eyes going big as goose eggs at the Priscilla look-alike. 

"You ... you're not Priscilla," he said, after examining 
Tootsie. 

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"Tonight I am." Tootsie smiled and batted his fake 
eyelashes. "Make-up magic." 

A fan rushed forward and held out a notebook. "Ms. 
Presley, will you please sign this for me?" she asked. "It's 
such an honor to meet you!" 

Tootsie gave Williams a wickedly impish glance and said 
"Of course. What's your name?" 

"Emma Rutherford." 

He took the pen and book she held out and signed with a 
flourish, then gave it back to her. "There you go, Emma. 
Thank you for coming to honor Elvis and his contributions to 
music." 

"You'll get arrested for impersonating her," Williams said 
angrily when the happy fan went back to join her friends, and 
Tootsie shook his head. 

"No, I won't. Not only is she a public figure, but I signed 
my own name. If Emma looks close enough, she'll be able to 
tell the difference, but I used lots of curls so it'll take a while." 

Harley looked at him. "You're always surprising me. I 
never realized how entertaining you are." 

"Baby, you ain't seen nothing yet." 

"That I believe." 

Once on the van, a little crowded with the impersonators 
and some of their families, it took longer than usual to cross 
Elvis Presley Boulevard because of the crowds. With dark 
closing in, everyone lit their candles as they waited at the iron 
gates with the musical notes on them. A few guards held back 
the fans as the gates opened and the van cruised slowly 
through, continuing up the gently curved driveway to stop in 

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front of the mansion. An air of solemnity marked their 
descent from the van, as if they were at a funeral instead of a 
candlelight vigil for a man dead since 1977. 

Several people were already there, the usual guards 
positioned for crowd control, ropes set up in front of the 
graves to guide people around so it didn't get too chaotic, and 
lights gleaming on the tombstones. Flowers, teddy bears, 
letters, cards, and even a sheet cake frosted with Elvis's 
likeness and dates of his birth and death, were placed around 
the markers. Three graves: Elvis in the center, his parents on 
each side of him. Behind the graves on one side was the pool, 
on the other the half-shell-shaped memorial where people 
often sat on the steps to meditate. 

"Just act normal," Harley murmured to Tootsie, "and don't 
let on to Yogi that we expect anything to happen. You know 
how he is. He'd be sure to say or do something weird and 
blow it for us." 

Tootsie patted the ends of his bobbed wig with one hand, 
his long fingernails painted blood red. "All we need is your 
Nana here to make things really interesting." 

"Please. I'm nervous enough without the reminder of her 
hauling around a loaded pistol." 

"Don't worry, you're wired for sound and there's bound to 
be enough cops here to pounce on the guy." 

"I'm not really nervous. Honest." 

"Bullshit." 

"Yeah, you're right. Does it show?" 

"Your secret is safe." He patted her arm. "There's your 
cue, girlfriend. Step on up. I'm right behind you." 

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There had to be several thousand people in the line that 
wound like a serpent down the driveway, out the gates onto 
the sidewalks, and down the street. Elvis Presley Boulevard 
had been blocked off, a precaution since a car had slammed 
into tourists a few years back. Only a single lane stayed open, 
and traffic guards directed the vehicles. 

The gates swung slowly open and fans began the 
procession, walking solemnly up the hill. An eerie hush fell 
over the crowd. 

Harley took a deep breath. "All right, Priscilla," she 
whispered. "Showtime!" 

Butterflies square-danced in her stomach as she lit her 
candle, following her father and the other finalists. Preston 
Hughes headed the line, dressed in black leather. No one said 
anything as they walked slowly between the pool and the 
gravesites enclosed by black iron pickets. 

It got so quiet Harley heard the thundering rush of blood in 
her ears as it raced to keep up with her rapid heartbeat. 
Every shadow beyond the lights looked sinister. Tall trees 
made black silhouettes against floodlights. If she tried to see 
past them, all she could make out were the bright spots in 
front of her eyes. Just as well. 

Six Elvises stood ceremoniously in front of the graves, 
their lit candles wavering ellipses that illuminated their faces. 
Yogi stood right beside Preston Hughes, and as always, silent 
tears slid down his cheeks. He wasn't alone. Others had tears 
in their eyes. A magnificent tribute, she supposed, to a man 
who'd been a legend even in his own time. 

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Yogi stood a little straighter, and in his clear baritone 
began to sing, "Amazing Grace," the hymn that had been one 
of Elvis's favorites rising heavenward past the tall oaks. 
Others began to sing, too, a swelling crescendo that would 
have been more moving if Harley wasn't so scared. 

She tried to focus on her candle, but her peripheral vision 
kept waiting for a maniac to burst out of the trees or crowd to 
attack her. Rationality told her he'd wait until she was more 
accessible, but nerves stretched a little too tightly insisted 
that he'd succeeded in plain sight before and could do it again 
before anyone realized what was happening. 

"Steady, girlfriend," Tootsie murmured when her candle 
began to shake a little too hard. "You're covered." 

She kept her head down as if focused on the candle and 
graves. It'd be nice if she could spot at least one of the 
undercover cops, but maybe that was the point. If she could 
find them, so could the Killer Elvis. 

Everyone started singing, and Tootsie nudged her with his 
elbow. "Participate. Sing." 

"You've never heard me sing," she muttered to her candle. 
"I frighten crows." 

"No one will notice. Just move your lips." 

The Elvises began to move around the graves, up the 
steps to stand with their candles on the top step of the 
colonnaded half-shell. Harley saw Yogi wipe his eyes. She 
looked toward her mother. Diva remained on the fringes of 
the crowd, standing by a tall planter, but if she'd been trying 
to hide, she failed. Diva always stood out in a crowd. Not just 
because she wore long skirts with bells and tie-dyed tunic 

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tops, but because she still looked as young and beautiful as 
she must have looked back in the seventies. 

A slight breeze lifted long strands of Diva's blond hair, and 
tiny bells tinkled as she lifted her arm to push it behind her 
ear. Harley couldn't hear the bells, but she saw them shimmy 
and knew from long experience the sound they made. 

While her mother moved to stand below Yogi and the other 
impersonators, fans filed past in what seemed to be an 
unending line. Ellipses of light flickered in the cool breeze that 
made the night bearable, faces mostly sober and reflective as 
they passed by the graves. 

Harley and Tootsie stood to one side, Harley with her back 
next to the planter and not far from the concrete shell 
occupied by impersonators and EPE employees. Somewhere 
in this crowd were undercover cops, and it was both 
comforting and unnerving that she had no idea who they 
might be. She'd tested her wire before leaving home and 
knew it was in good working order. The police already knew 
the range and were in position. All she had to do was bait the 
killer. 

With that in mind, she eased away from Tootsie to amble 
along the edge of the concrete walkway. The grounds of 
Graceland were a river of light. The well-lit highway and 
shops across the street were mostly hidden by the trees and 
a high stone fence. To her right was the mansion, lit up as if 
Elvis was home. Behind that was the old office, the building 
dark now that no tourists were visiting. Next to it was the 
studio where Elvis had spent many nights singing with the 
Jordanaires. A three-rail fence separated the backyard from 

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the pasture where a few horses still grazed. At night, 
subdivision lights glowed beyond the pasture and high 
fieldstone fence that surrounded the property. The horses 
were only black silhouettes against the streetlights. 

A sudden chill raked down her spine and she didn't know 
why. Hair rose on the nape of her neck, and her muscles 
tensed. 

Nothing looked amiss. Fans were still weeping and singing, 
candles still flickered, and the air was still heady with 
fragrance from flowery wreaths. Red and white roses, 
carnations, gladiolas, and even tulips flanked the graves. 
Teddy bears and handwritten notes were tucked among the 
flowers. 

Harley edged toward the shadows, hoping the undercover 
guys noticed her. If the killer was here, he was being very 
cautious. Maybe temptation would draw him out. Guards 
focused on the fans to make certain they kept behind the 
ropes. Sometimes an overeager mourner tried to slip beneath 
the ropes to place a tribute directly on the graves, but the 
guards discouraged that. If they didn't, the graves would 
disappear under a mound of stuffed animals, letters, and 
whatever other tributes the fans thought appropriate. 

As Amazing Grace ended, Yogi segued into another Elvis 
song. Beside him, Preston Hughes looked furious. Harley 
smiled. Hughes probably felt like Yogi had stolen his thunder, 
but if he'd taken the lead Yogi wouldn't have been able to. 
Anyway, Yogi hadn't intended any insult by it. It wasn't in his 
nature to be malicious. He was probably just so swept away 
by the vigil festivities he couldn't help himself. 

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There was no sign of Williams, and she wondered if he was 
present at all. There was something going on between those 
two, she just couldn't figure out what. Hughes still seemed 
the most likely to kill, and Lydia would have known him from 
previous contests. Of course, she'd have known Williams as 
well. That gave both of them a good reason to kill her, if 
there was such a thing as a good reason to kill anyone. 
Motives for killing Elvis impersonators, however, were known 
only to the murderer. 

But why kill me? Harley mused. I obviously can't identify 
him or he'd already be in jail. 

The only identification she could make would be if he 
popped up looking like a mime or stuffed into a giant Redbird 
costume. 

Or if he still wore that strong, unpleasant aftershave. She 
wondered if he knew how distinctive it was, or if he even 
realized that he smelled like he'd bathed in a vat of it. 

A lot of things went through her mind as she waited for 
terror to strike, most of it things she'd rather not think about 
at all. An hour passed, then two, and then a string of 
unbearably boring hours as she watched Elvis mourners file 
past. Of the finalists, only Yogi remained under the gentle 
curve of concrete. He always stayed until the last, and had 
always come home bleary-eyed and exhausted but 
exhilarated. Yogi liked to wring every drop of emotion from 
his annual bout of grief and adulation. Diva had better sense. 
She'd gone home a long time ago. 

So had Preston Hughes. 

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A hand touched her shoulder and she jumped, heart in her 
throat. When she whirled around she bumped into a 
uniformed guard. He caught her and said, "We think you 
should stand over there, ma'am, out of the way." He 
indicated the shadows beyond the ropes with a glance in that 
direction. 

"In the dark? Can you still see me?" 

"Yes. I'll check on you. Don't worry." 

The trouble with undercover cops was that she could never 
pick them out of the crowds. A uniformed guard should have 
been easy to recognize, but she'd never thought the police 
would do that. She'd thought the undercover guys would be 
disguised as fans, but maybe this made better sense. Who'd 
suspect one of the guards? It was too obvious. 

Harley waited a few moments, so as not to make it too 
obvious she'd been directed to go to a different spot. The 
crowd had thinned out, though more fans still moved in the 
slow, steady procession. 

It was rather comforting to know the police were so 
thorough and close by. Even if she was wired, there were too 
many things that could happen if left on her own. A sidewalk 
led to the back of the mansion and to the recording studio 
where awards filled every available space on the high walls. 
To discourage tourists wandering away from the vigil, the 
lights were off and it was dark as she ambled casually toward 
the shadows behind the mansion. 

A cool breeze eased the night's heat, and hungry 
mosquitoes had her slapping at her arms and face. Even with 

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bug spray, the damn things found her irresistible. If only the 
rest of the world felt that way. 

The guard had disappeared, but she thought she saw an 
undercover cop she recognized. It had to be the guy Morgan 
called Chainsaw. She didn't know what his real name was, 
and since it made her a little queasy to even think about how 
he might have gotten that nickname, she'd never asked. 

Chainsaw, or his twin, looked in her direction. Like Morgan, 
he sported a beard, but he was easy to recognize because of 
his size. He was about the width of a side-by-side 
refrigerator, and a little taller. A little beyond him stood 
Tootsie, looking definitely out of place in his disguise as 
Priscilla. He kept tugging at the back of his skirt, and she had 
a momentary fear he'd brought along a weapon of some kind. 
Then she realized he was adjusting his thong underwear. He'd 
been complaining about it earlier, grumbling that the damn 
panties rode up and chafed him where he was the tenderest. 
She'd tried not to roll her eyes, but failed. 

A sense of the ridiculous had always had the power to 
amuse her, and the sudden thought that no stranger would 
believe it if she told them she was waiting in the shadows for 
an Elvis impersonator to kill her, while a man dressed up as 
Priscilla Presley was one of her bodyguards and her father 
wore a white jumpsuit studded with fake gems and wept by 
the grave of a man dead nearly thirty years. It sounded 
pretty odd. Preposterous, a stranger unacquainted with her 
would say, and she'd have to admit that they were right. 

Still, the reality of it struck her as quite funny, and she 
couldn't hold back a bubble of laughter, even though that 

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seemed strange, too, standing alone in the shadows and 
cackling wildly to herself. The police listening to her must be 
wondering if she'd cracked under the pressure. 

Then two things happened at once. A woman began yelling 
that her purse had been stolen and someone grabbed Harley 
from behind and clapped a hand over her mouth. Just before 
the gloved hand covered her nose as well, she recognized the 
strong smell of aftershave. 

Struggling didn't do her much good. His arm around her 
ribs and chest held her too tight. She clawed at the hand over 
her mouth, desperate to breathe. Blood pounded loud in her 
ears, and little lights exploded in front of her eyes, while 
candle flames and spotlights did a weird dance. It felt as if 
her lungs were bursting. Pinwheels of light whirled faster and 
faster until they turned into a single light that smothered the 
shadows. Then a buzz sounded and a shock went through 
her. All her muscles turned to jelly. Abruptly, darkness 
swallowed the light. 

Then ... nothing. 

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Chapter Nineteen 

Harley woke with a start. It was dark and her head hurt. 
So did her throat. She tried to speak, to ask where the hell 
she was, but it came out as a smothered croak. 

"Ah, you're awake," a voice crooned, and she blinked her 
eyes in an attempt to make sense of the shadows. 

Tape covered her mouth, but thankfully not her nose. She 
could breathe, but it was obvious he didn't want conversation. 
Something bound her hands behind her, and her feet were 
tied so tightly her circulation was cut off. So she glared in the 
direction of the voice to show her contempt. 

He chuckled. "Still defiant, are you? You've caused me a 
great deal of trouble, you know. Not like the others. They 
were quick, easy, foolish. You, though. You've been a 
challenge. I like games. I always win, but you've been quite a 
test of my abilities." 

Leaning forward, he was a black silhouette against the 
faint glow of lights behind him. She blinked to clear her 
vision, heart pounding so hard in her chest he had to hear it. 

Harley swallowed hard, hoping the guys listening to the 
wire heard his confession, as well as figured out where he'd 
taken her. It had better be soon, or she was going to be his 
next victim. 

Surprisingly, he ran the back of his fingers over her cheek, 
chuckling again when she flinched. "Do you think I'm going to 
kill you? Not here. After the last time, I want to make sure 
nothing can go wrong. Besides, I'm enjoying myself." 

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She glared at him, but he found that amusing, too. "I like 
that you're not going to make it easy for me. I noticed you on 
the van, you know, how confident you were, like nothing in 
your life had ever gone wrong. Like you'd never been left 
stranded, alone, with the important things in your life jerked 
away so fast you hit the ground hard. It leaves you stunned, 
hopeless. Furious." 

He leaned closer, so she could see his eyes behind the 
Elvis mask. They were dark and glittering, with an almost 
fanatical light so evil that she couldn't help a shudder. 

Another chuckle came from behind the mask. "I'm 
enjoying this too much. Vengeance is sweet." 

Then he stood up and went to stand beside what she could 
now see was a door with blinds that blocked out most of the 
light. Faint light revealed some kind of uniform. He eased 
aside two of the slats to peer out. 

"They haven't noticed you're missing. I think it's time." 

Harley realized they were in what had been Elvis's office. 
Now it was a tourist spot, with a running video of Elvis being 
interviewed behind the desk, talking about his stint in the 
Army. It was an old black and white film that flickered, but 
Elvis was so young and handsome and shy that it was one of 
the best interviews of him she'd ever seen. 

If only she could get some of the duct tape off her mouth, 
she could mutter where they were so the cops listening to her 
wire would know she was in deep trouble. She wiggled next to 
the desk and scraped her face against the side. It didn't seem 
to help much. Keeping one eye on the killer looking out the 

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window, she rubbed against the edge of the desk until her 
cheek burned. When the Elvis looked around, she stopped. 

Another chuckle came from his direction. "The first thing I 
did was get rid of that wire. It's in the bushes where the cops 
can't see it, but it's still recording the vigil so they won't 
realize you're missing for a little while longer. I'm missing a 
chance to get rid of that pervert in the leather skirt, though. 
This would be a perfect opportunity to kill him as well, but 
he's still standing too close to the crowd. Everyone's looking 
at him in that ridiculous getup, and the risk's too great. But 
tonight you were easy enough." 

Harley just stared at him. Her wire was gone. Damn, 
damn, damn! Real fear oozed through her veins. No one had 
missed her, which meant no one was looking for her. Once he 
got her away from Graceland she was doomed. Of course, if 
he got too panicky he might kill her right here and leave her 
body on the cold floor. It'd be easy enough. He still wore the 
guard's uniform. 

He couldn't be the one who'd asked her to move back a 
little bit, because she hadn't smelled that awful aftershave. 
Were there two killers? Maybe this guy and Hughes? 

They both had motives, insane as they were. One for 
vengeance, the other for triumph. It couldn't be for money. 
There'd been no demands made and nothing that she could 
see to gain, unless Rhett Sandler had come up with 
something about the payroll computer being hacked. 

A burst of noise made the fake Elvis turn back to look out 
the window again. Harley worked at the restraints on her 
wrists while rubbing her face against the corner of the desk. 

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She finally got a corner of the duct tape over her mouth free. 
She scrubbed harder at the corner of the tape until it only 
covered half her mouth. 

Her head still throbbed and her stomach sat at the bottom 
of her throat. The Elvis had turned to look outside again, and 
she sensed his growing tension. One of her Catholic school 
prayers came to mind, the Our Father whirling round and 
round in her head. If she was going to die, it wouldn't hurt to 
remind God that she tried to be good. Most of the time. Some 
of the time. 

Okay, infrequently, but most of her sins were venial ones. 
Surely He'd take that into account? Then, just to be on the 
safe side, she reminded the Earth Mother that she didn't litter 
or defile the earth. Diva would be so proud. She firmly 
believed that Native American respect for the earth and 
environment went hand in hand with a strong belief in a 
Higher Power. 

Then the deadly Elvis turned back to stride toward her, 
and all thought went completely out of her head. Fear took 
over, a thudding apprehension making her numb. She 
strained at the stuff binding her wrists. It didn't loosen. Then 
instinct took over. When Elvis leaned over her, she did the 
only thing she could. She hit him squarely in the crotch with 
both feet. It worked. 

He went down like a sack of potatoes, bent over and 
retching. Harley knew she'd only disabled him temporarily. 
When he recovered, he'd most likely be in a nasty mood. 

She skidded across the floor like an inchworm until she 
reached the door. Miraculously, she somehow got to her feet. 

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Behind her, Elvis groaned, but the retching had stopped. She 
had to do something quick. So she banged her head against 
the glass window of the door, buffered a little by the blinds. It 
didn't break. She hit it again, harder this time. Her eyes 
crossed but the window burst with a loud sound. An alarm 
immediately blared with a whoop whoop sound. 

Sticking her head close to the gaping hole, she hollered as 
loud as she could, "Help! Help! Fire! Fire!" The last came from 
the safety course Mr. Penney had insisted the employees 
take. The reasoning was that people often ignored the cry for 
help, but usually responded pretty fast to the Fire! thing. Not 
that anyone would hear her over the shrieking alarm. 
Thankfully, someone did. Not the undercover cops she 
expected, but Yogi. He hit the door with his shoulder, but the 
deadlock held. Panicked now, Harley bent to try to turn the 
little knob with her chin. That didn't work. Elvis's gasping had 
stopped. She turned her head sideways and used her teeth. 
That worked. Yogi burst into the office. 

"Are you all right?" he asked as he brushed past her. 

Harley had seen murder in his eyes, and she said Yes as 
fast as she could with her teeth and mouth still smarting. 

Yogi barely listened. He bore down on the Elvis, knocked 
him back to his knees and kicked him. Hard. Elvis grunted 
and tried to get up, but Yogi kept kicking him in the stomach, 
the face, his rib cage. 

This is a pacifist? Yogi? Harley yelled at him to stop before 
he killed him, but Yogi ignored her. He kept making growling 
sounds deep in his throat, sounding like King when he 

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cornered one of those big leathery rawhide toys he liked to 
chew into a soggy lump. 

She hopped on her bound feet toward her father. Maybe 
she could distract him from killing the guy, though it did seem 
rather justified. From long experience, however, she knew the 
cops wouldn't agree. They usually looked askance at that sort 
of thing. 

"Yogi!" she hollered again, as close to his ear as she could 
get since he kept kicking the Elvis sprawled on the floor. 
"Stop or you'll kill him!" 

Panting, Yogi said, "Sounds good to me." 

"Agh!" she said back. 

About that time, the cavalry arrived. The first thing they 
did was pull Yogi away from the bloody thing on the floor. 
Someone turned on the lights, and she tried to see who the 
Elvis was since his mask had come off. He looked vaguely 
familiar, though it was hard to tell because of the swelling, 
blood, and shoe imprints on his face. 

Cops got busy, hauling the Elvis to his feet, slapping 
handcuffs on his wrists and reading him his rights. If not for 
Morgan, they may well have taken Yogi in, too. Assault and 
attempted murder charges wouldn't help her father's lifestyle. 
After convincing his fellow officers that Yogi had only 
acted in defense of his daughter, Morgan turned to look at 
her. 

"Hi there," she said through swollen lips. "Fancy seeing 
you here." 

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"Why do you always go for the crotch?" He didn't sound 
really mad about it. He must have been thinking of their first 
encounter, when she'd kicked him in the crotch, too. 

"It just seems the right thing to do," she said. 

He smiled. "Rules according to Harley." 

"Yep. Always seems to work." 

"You know, I may just leave you tied up. It's kind of sexy." 

She lifted an eye brow. "I'm not really into the bondage 
thing." 

"The longer I know you, the more it seems appropriate. 
Insurance against your uncanny ability to get in trouble." 

Rather indignant, she said, "Trouble always finds me, I 
don't go looking for it, you know." 

"It's the same thing. By the way, you've just been rescued 
again." 

"Well, if I had to depend on my guards, I wouldn't have 
gotten rescued at all! Breaking the window is what helped. 
That I did all by myself." 

"So you did. Guess I'll untie you, though it's against my 
better judgment." 

She tried to blow a raspberry but her lips didn't cooperate. 
She settled for a glare instead. 

Just as Morgan got her wrists and ankles loose, a loud 
noise came from outside the door. "I'm one of her guards and 
I'm going in! Move out of my way or I'll have to get ugly." 

One of the cops stuck his head into the office. "There's a 
woman—or guy—out here who says she's—he's?—a guard. 
Looks like Priscilla Presley." 

"Let Priscilla in," Morgan sounded amused. 

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Tootsie burst into the room. His wig was askew, and he 
clattered across the floor on high heels. "Are you all right?" 
He looked anxious. 

Harley coughed. "I'm fine. Honest. Just a little bruised." 

He still looked worried, but he calmed down a bit. Then he 
looked at the unmasked Elvis and his eyes got really big. 
"Jimmy Horton? You're the killer?" 

Jimmy Horton. His face was so battered it was hard to tell 
if he was even human, but apparently Tootsie knew how. 
Horton glared at Tootsie. "If it wasn't for you, my father 
never would have gone to prison, you queer!" 

"Sticks and stones. And it wasn't me who got him into 
prison. He did it all by himself." 

"He'd have made things right. You wouldn't listen, you or 
that bastard Penney!" 

"Just how would he have made things right? He didn't have 
any of the money left that he stole. He'd spent it all, down to 
a couple of thousand. Hardly enough to cover the couple 
hundred thousand he took." 

"You didn't give him a chance. You had to drag the cops 
into it. I had to watch while he went through a trial and got 
sent to that hell of prison. Every time I visit him, he's got new 
bruises, new cuts. He doesn't deserve that." 

"You'll forgive me if I don't agree," Tootsie said. "He 
committed a crime and a jury decided he'd done it. It wasn't 
exactly a shock since he'd left so many clues." 

"No one would have noticed if not for you!" 

Tootsie looked at him for a minute, and then asked, "So 
you think killing innocent people is a good payback?" 

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"It ruined your business, didn't it? It was too damned easy 
to hack into your computers and find out everything I needed 
to know. Seems like you aren't the great computer whiz you 
pretend to be." 

"But what did Lydia do to you?" 

Horton shrugged. "Nothing. I wanted to hurt Lester. It 
worked out pretty well." 

Harley felt like smacking the smug bastard. She took a 
step forward, but Morgan grabbed her arm. "Don't worry. 
He'll get what's coming to him." 

Sneering, Horton said, "Not unless you can prove it. You 
won't find any evidence that can convict me." 

Morgan smiled. "I think the DNA we got from one of the 
crime scenes will be enough to send you to prison for a long, 
long time." 

Horton stared at him, obviously stunned. "I made sure I 
didn't leave any—" 

"Lydia caught you. She got skin under her fingernails when 
she tried to fight you off. You should have been more careful. 
"One of the officers took Horton roughly by the arm and 
shoved him toward the door. As they passed out the door, 
Tootsie swung his heavy purse and hit Horton a good clip on 
the chin. He tried to hit him again, but an officer caught his 
arm. 

"That's enough, Priscilla." 

The last thing Harley heard Horton say was that he'd have 
all their badges, that he hadn't done anything wrong. She 
turned around to look at Morgan and Tootsie. 

"He's nuts. Can he get off on an insanity plea?" 

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"Doubtful," Morgan said. "He was sane enough to plan a 
complicated series of murders. Besides, no prosecutor would 
allow it." 

"Good. He deserves to fry. Is Tennessee a death penalty 
state?" 

"Vicious little thing, aren't you." 

Harley nodded. "Only when necessary." 

Morgan grinned. "You're something, you know that?" 

"Yes. It's one of my better virtues." 

Tootsie took her home. Her apartment was still a mess, 
but Frank seemed happy enough. He made chuckling noises 
in his glass tank, and nibbled on some ferret food. 

"Home sweet home." Harley collapsed into one of her 
overstuffed chairs. It tilted to the right. A brief examination 
revealed a broken leg. One of the hazards of getting mixed up 
with a serial killer, she thought. 

"Sit up," Tootsie said, and she looked at him. 

"What's that?" 

"Neosporin, a warm washrag, and bandages. I'm going to 
clean you up and take care of your face. Then I'll put some 
ice on your mouth. You look like a duck." 

She sat up in the tilting chair and muttered, "Flattery will 
get you anywhere." After Tootsie did his doctor routine and 
left, she went out onto her balcony and called for Sam. He 
didn't answer. Where was he? Was he lost and gone forever? 
The thought depressed her and left tears in her eyes. She 
sniffled. 

"I'm getting to be too much like Cami," she sighed, and 
went back inside. The sight of his litter box didn't help. As 

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late as it was, she decided to go down and look in the trap 
under the bushes to see if he'd been fooled into going for the 
can of tuna. 

He hadn't. The trap had, however, snared a raccoon that 
didn't look at all happy. It curled tiny fingers in the wire and 
stuck its nose through one of the small squares. Beady eyes 
looked at her hopefully. She tried not to notice. 

"Are you the little beast who gets into the garbage dump 
all the time? You make quite a mess, you know. I shouldn't 
let you go." 

She let it go, of course. It sprang out from the trap and 
attached itself to her leg. She screeched. That scared the 
raccoon so badly it fell off her leg. Then it took off for 
wherever it was urban raccoons went. 

A little shaken, Harley didn't bother to reset the trap. 
Apparently Sam wasn't coming back anytime soon. If at all. 

When she went back into the apartment building and 
stepped into the entrance hall, a door opened. Sarah Simon 
peered out through the narrow space between the chain-
locked door and the door frame. 

"Did you lose a cat?" 

Harley's stomach jumped. She nodded. "Yes. A loud 
Siamese. Have you seen him?" 

Sarah nodded. "He's in my bathroom. Come and get him. 
He won't use the newspapers." 

Sam is used to more pleasant living arrangements, Harley 
thought as Sarah closed the door and undid the chain. 

Sarah's apartment was piled high with magazines and 
newspapers. It was clean but cluttered, with stuff sitting 

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everywhere. A big-screen TV sat against one wall, and a huge 
chair had been placed in front of it. Tables held more figurines 
and magazines. 

"How did you find him?" Harley asked as she followed 
Sarah through the maze toward the bathroom. 

"I didn't. He found me. I heard him scratching on my 
window screen, and when I saw it was a cat and not a 
murderer I let him in. My cat died a few months ago, and I 
thought maybe the fairies sent me a new one." 

"Uh huh," Harley said. Sarah might be nuts, but at least 
she didn't seem homicidal. It did explain a lot of her behavior. 

Sarah opened her bathroom door and Sam shot out like a 
rocket. His fur stood straight out and up, and he looked 
pissed. Halfway across the room and somewhere in the maze, 
he must have noticed Harley. He came back a little at a time. 
When he peered around a stack of Victoria magazines, he saw 
Harley and his eyes narrowed into blue slits. She couldn't tell 
if he was happy to see her or just mad because she'd taken 
so long to come get him. 

"Are you sure that's your cat?" Sarah asked doubtfully, 
and Harley nodded. 

"Oh yeah. I can tell by the bad attitude." 

Sam minced over to her and hissed, then leaped up so that 
she had to grab him or risk his claws raking down her front. 
He started to purr and rub his whiskers against her face, and 
then dug his claws into her arm. 

"I think he's ready to go home now," Harley said as she 
carefully dislodged him from her forearm. "You don't know 
how grateful I am that you took him in. If there's ever 

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anything you need, just let me know and I'll do my best to 
help out." 

"There is one thing," Sarah said. "You could stop having 
murderous maniacs up to your apartment. The neighbors are 
talking." 

"Will do." 

Harley left, crooning to Sam as she went upstairs. As soon 
as she unlocked her door and stepped into the living room, he 
made a leap from her arms and a mad dash under her bed. 
She didn't much blame him. It must have been an exhausting 
few days for him. 

Before she went to bed, Harley called Cami and told her 
Sam was back. "In good shape and as ornery as ever." 

"Oh, I'm so relieved. Where was he?" 

"In a neighbor's apartment. Sarah Simon. She thought the 
fairies brought him." 

"What?" 

"True story. Oh, and the killer's in jail. I'll tell you all about 
it when I come out of the coma I'm planning, okay?" 

"Come out of it soon. I can't wait to hear." 

When Harley hung up, she staggered toward her bedroom 
and collapsed on the bed. She debated a bath and changing 
into a pair of panties, but fell asleep before she could bring 
herself to do more than lie there under the ceiling fan. 

A heavy weight on the side of her bed woke her with a 
start and she reached out for some kind of a weapon, her 
heartbeat escalating into a Flight of the Bumblebee pace. 

"Hey, I'm part of the cavalry," a familiar voice said, and 
she flopped back onto her pillow. 

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"How the hell do you always get in through a locked door?" 

"Simple. I still have the key you gave me." 

"Oh. I could have shot you, you know." 

He bent and kissed her until her head started to spin and 
tingles popped up in vital places. "You don't have a gun," he 
said after a moment. 

"You don't know that." 

Morgan curled his fingers into hers and pushed her arms 
up over her head and deep into her pillow. "Yes I do. If you 
did, you'd have shot Horton instead of kicking him in the 
crotch." 

"I liked kicking him in the crotch. He was obviously a slow 
learner. I did it a few times." 

"Are your lips still swollen?" 

"Tootsie put ice on them. I'm good to go." 

"How handy," he murmured deep in his throat. "Want to 
take a shower with me?" 

"Are you saying I stink?" 

"Yeah. But that's okay. So do I." 

Before she could think up an appropriate insult, he lifted 
her into his arms and walked toward the bathroom. It took 
him no time to strip off her clothes and his, and they were in 
the shower with hot water beating down on them and slick 
soap making things nice and slippery. 

"I thought you wanted your space," she murmured 
through the pelting water. 

"I just said that so you wouldn't snoop around in my case 
too much." 

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"And what was your case?" She shuddered when he 
slipped his hands down over her well-lathered body. 

"Hughes and Williams. They were running a scam on the 
charity and the tourists." 

"I knew it! I knew there was something wrong about those 
guys!" 

"Sometimes you scare me." 

"You love it." 

He laughed softly. "I guess I do." 

It was the best shower she'd had in a long time, Harley 
reflected a few hours later as her bedroom started to get light 
enough for her to see the wet towels on her floor. 

Mike was asleep. That was okay. He'd worked pretty hard 
these last few hours. She smiled and turned over to throw a 
leg over him. Not a bad ending to the night. 

Not bad at all. 

* * * * 

Diva called at noon. "Yogi's on the front page of the paper. 
He's credited with capturing the serial killer. I think you 
should come over and congratulate him. Most of the 
neighborhood has shown up this morning." 

"So he's famous, huh." 

"As I told you he'd be." 

"You're scary." 

Diva ignored that and said, "It'd be nice if you'd stop by to 
pick up Nana on your way. She wanted to be here, too." 

Harley closed her eyes. Serenity was so short-lived. 

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"I'll pick up Nana," she heard herself sigh, and Morgan 
turned over and started doing things with his fingers that 
made her speechless. 

"I'll expect you in a few hours," Diva said, and Harley hung 
up. Her mother knew too many things she'd rather she didn't. 

She didn't show up at Whispering Pines until 3:00. Nana 
met her in the lobby. 

"It's about damn time you got here. I was just thinking 
about a quickie with Julio." 

Harley winced at the images that summoned. "I thought 
his name was Rico." 

"Oh yeah. So it is. No matter. Let's get out of here, 
chickie." 

Chickie and Nana got to the house on Douglass Street by 
three-thirty. Eric met them at the curb. "When are you going 
to get your car back?" he asked. "This one looks pretty 
ragged." 

"It's a theft deterrent. And I get my car back day after 
tomorrow. Once I raid my savings account." 

"Stop chattering and come inside," Nana said as she 
opened the gate in the picket fence, marching up the 
sidewalk. Long-stemmed sunflowers banged against her head 
and she shoved them to the side. Bumblebees swarmed 
around her head. She took a few swats at them and they 
buzzed off. Not much intimidated Nana. 

Yogi met them at the door. His chest was all puffed out 
and his knuckles had a few cuts. He must have taken some 
swings at Horton. 

"I hear you're famous now," Nana said. 

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Yogi nodded. "So everyone says." 

"You captured that killer, didn't you? Good thing. He was 
starting to get on my nerves. Is that Sadie in there? I hope 
she brought some pie." 

Without waiting for an answer, Nana went into the kitchen. 
Harley looked at her brother and Yogi. "Now do you 
understand why I couldn't stop her from stealing that horse 
and carriage?" 

"Cool chick, no one can stop Nana when she's set her mind 
on something," Eric said. 

Yogi grinned. "She told Diva she wants her gun back. I 
hope they don't give it to her." 

"Don't worry. Bobby isn't too anxious to arm her again. 
Things happen." 

"That's a relief. Did you see the morning paper?" 

"Not yet." Yogi held it out to her. "Hey, you're really 
famous." 

Shrugging, her father said, "Not quite the way I thought 
I'd be, but I guess this is pretty good." 

"You saved my life! I think it's much better than pretty 
good." 

Yogi's grin got so wide she thought his face might never be 
normal again. 

"Come on into the kitchen," Eric said. "There's pie and 
cake. Aunt Darcy sent over some of those good cookies Janet 
makes. They have lots of icing on the top." 

"I'm sold." 

They wandered into the kitchen where Sadie Shipley sat on 
a stool by the breakfast bar and told anyone who'd listen that 

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she'd always known Yogi had it in him to tackle a killer. Yogi 
rolled his eyes but didn't say anything. Diva just smiled her 
serene smile. 

Harley stuffed her mouth with Janet's cookies. No one 
made them better. Aunt Darcy was the bomb; Janet was 
worth every penny she paid. Darcy had changed a lot in the 
past months and become much nicer. Madeline and Amanda 
still had a ways to go. 

A pleasant buzz filled the kitchen, reminding Harley of her 
childhood. Diva had never closed her door to anyone. Over 
the years, a long line of hippies, drifters, and the adventurous 
had been invited inside. Some of them, Harley recalled, were 
former residents of the communes they'd lived in from time to 
time. It was a mystery to her how they'd found her house, 
but maybe Diva gave off some kind of vibe that drew them in. 

"This isn't sweet tea," Nana said, looking into the glass 
she'd been given. "What is this crap?" 

Diva said calmly, "Chamomile. It's soothing." 

"It's crap. Use real tea. This stuff tastes like watered-down 
flies." 

While Harley was trying to remember if chamomile really 
did taste like watered-down flies, Morgan showed up. 

Nana immediately got all flirty. "Hey handsome, where'd 
you come from?" 

Morgan took it in stride. "Midtown, Mrs. McMullen." He 
looked over at Harley. "Baroni said to tell you he still expects 
you to show up and give your statement." 

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"Bobby Baroni?" Nana snorted. "He still hasn't given me 
my gun back yet. I'm thinking of suing the entire police 
department." 

"I hope you have a good lawyer." 

"I do. He's a real pip." 

"By the way, Nana, I brought you something." Harley held 
out a flowery gift bag. 

Nana looked at it suspiciously. "It's not something 
unpleasant, is it?" 

"Why on earth would you think that? It's just something I 
think you might like." 

Nana took the bag and peered into it as if afraid the 
contents might bite. Then her face lit up. "Hot damn!" 

She pulled out the gift and waved the wooden penis in the 
air. Mrs. Shipley looked puzzled, then shocked. 

"Anna Mae? Is that what I think it is?" 

"Yep, and a good, big one. Not that I can do anything with 
it, but it does give me nice memories. Oughta give Rico 
something to work towards. Why'd you give this to me, 
Harley?" 

"When I was in that casket and vault, I wished I'd made a 
will. Then I thought—why wait? I'd just give it to you now." 

"Did you leave me your bike?" Eric looked hopeful until she 
shook her head. 

"I'm keeping that for a while longer." 

Silence had fallen, with Mrs. Shipley still looking shocked, 
Nana gloating, and Morgan looking bemused. Diva must have 
thought it was time to say something innocuous. 

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"Would you care for something to drink?" Diva asked 
Morgan, and before he could answer Nana said, "Don't drink 
the tea. It tastes like crap." 

Yogi handed Mike an organic root beer. "Try this." 

"Thanks. There a lot of talk about you down at the 
precinct." 

Yogi's eyes got wide. "Are they going to charge me with 
something?" 

"Nothing like that. You were pretty amazing. Especially 
since you didn't know if Horton was armed. He could have 
had a gun, or used the knife we took off him." 

Yogi went pale. "He had a knife?" 

"A good-sized one. Could have done a lot of damage." 

Swallowing hard, Yogi said in a weak voice, "Well, I had to 
save my little girl." 

"You did a bang-up job. Horton's going to be in the 
hospital a day or two." 

"Come along, officer," Harley said, and took him by the 
arm. "Let's go sit on the porch." 

One of the swinging settees was covered with flowery 
cushions, and they sat on that. It was a nice afternoon as 
long as they stayed in the shade and under a ceiling fan. 
Cicadas sang and crickets made chirping noises. The hum of 
bumblebees mixed in with the other sounds. They sat for a 
while in silence, until Harley got drowsy. 

"This root beer isn't too bad." Morgan took another drink 
from the bottle. 

She roused. "It tastes like crap." 

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They both laughed at her imitation of Nana. Then Morgan 
leaned close. 

"We could sneak out of here if we're quiet." 

"I can't. I brought Nana and I have to take her home." 

"Eric can do it. By the way, there's something I've been 
wanting to ask you." 

Her stomach got tight. Surely he wasn't going to ask her to 
marry him. That was something she wasn't at all sure she 
was ready to do. 

He didn't. Instead he asked, "Why does your brother have 
a normal name and you don't?" 

"I do too have a normal name. It's just that Harley and 
Davidson sound funny said together. Besides, Eric doesn't 
exactly have a normal name." 

"What's wrong with Eric as a name?" 

"Nothing. But his middle name is Toke." 

"Strangely enough, that's not very surprising. So go get 
Toke to take Nana home. I've got something I want to do 
with you." 

"Does it involve Mr. Happy? I've already seen a lot of him 
today." 

"Not Mr. Happy. Though you could appreciate my efforts a 
little better." 

"There's always another chance to grow, grasshopper." 

"I love it when you talk Ninja to me. Come on." He stood 
up and took her hand. "Go tell Toke he's the designated 
driver tonight." 

Morgan drove his red Corvette. He stuck a CD into the 
player and turned it up. Then he took her to the Tom Lee Park 

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that overlooked the Mississippi River. They parked in the lot 
next to the bluffs. Dusk had begun to fall. The river rushed 
past, as it had for centuries, and barges glided through the 
currents leaving cone-shaped wakes behind. Jewel played on 
the CD, and her husky voice sang about lost love. 

"How did you know I liked Jewel?" Harley asked. 

"You have her CDs all over your apartment." 

She rested her head against the back of the seat. Slowly, 
her earlier tension faded away and was replaced with a sense 
of peace. The fiery ball of sun sinking beyond the horizon 
made streaked patterns in the sky. In the distance, cars 
streamed across the M-shaped bridge that would light up the 
night when it got darker. It felt like everything she'd been 
through oozed out from her feet and through the car mats 
onto the pavement below. 

Morgan reached over and took her hand, rubbing his 
thumb over her wrist. He didn't say anything and she was 
glad. Speaking would ruin the moment. They sat there until 
the sun left only a faint gleam, staining the sky red and 
turning the clouds blue. Lights popped on the bridge, so the M 
was much more visible. A few other cars had shown up. Some 
of the passengers got out to meander along the concrete 
walks edging the bluffs. 

She was content to just sit there, the top down on the 
Corvette and a soft breeze blowing. After the last weeks, it 
was as close to perfect as she could get. Then Morgan handed 
her a glass of wine he'd taken from his cooler in what could 
have been a back seat but wasn't. 

Okay, now it was perfect. 

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A sip of chilled zinfandel made her sigh with pleasure. "I'm 
officially in love," she said. 

"You mean you weren't before?" 

"Maybe." 

"Tease." 

"If it works, why change?" Harley slid him a glance. He 
looked back at her with such a sizzling gaze that her mouth 
got dry despite the wine. That tingle headed south again, and 
the air held heat that had nothing to do with the weather. 

Morgan smiled. "Sure you don't want to see Mr. Happy 
tonight?" 

"Come to think of it, I would enjoy the pleasure of his 
company." 

"Shall we go?" 

"As fast as we can." 

It was one of the best nights yet. Maybe she could fall in 
love. While she waited for it, she could certainly enjoy all the 
perks. 

Until next time... 

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Evil Elvis 

by Virginia Brown 

Afterword 

I have, of course, taken liberties with certain dates and 
facts, as writers of fiction are prone to do. Images of the King 
is indeed the "Super Bowl" of Elvis competitions in August 
every year, with some very talented performers and 
dedicated organizers, none of whom are depicted nor 
resemble in any way the characters in this book. Most of the 
Memphis tourist attractions are accurately described, with a 
certain fictional license to fit my plot. If you've ever been to 
Memphis, you'll recognize many places, and if you haven't, I 
extend an invitation in the time-honored tradition of the 
South—"Y'all come!" 

Don't Miss Harley's next adventure 

Killing Jordan 

Coming in 2006 

from 

ImaJinn Books 

Copyright 2006 by Virginia Brown
Published by ImaJinn Books 2006


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by Virginia Brown 

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